


Cloudy Internships

by RenkonNairu



Series: One Sky Continuity [3]
Category: Sky High (2005)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Atypical Canon Violence, Author shows a complete lack of understanding of the US legal system, But Not Aged Up By Much, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Angst, Disaster Response, Earthquakes, Gen, Growing Up, Head-Shot, Hot Mess, I honestly don't know if this fic is a comedy or a drama, Interns & Internships, Manhunt - Freeform, Mentorship Programs, More Angst Than Plot, Natural Disasters, Teen Angst, There was a plot, This fic is a train wreck, but it went away, coming into your own, it's awkward, its not that deep, prison break - Freeform, too many characters in one scene at one time, un-beta'd, what genre is this, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2019-10-31 06:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 121,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17843882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenkonNairu/pseuds/RenkonNairu
Summary: The sidekick system is gone, and is replaced with a new Internship system. But its still relatively new and far from perfect. With any new system, there are its fair share of kinks to work out so that students can grow and mature into admirable heroes.Our young heroes and their mentors are thrown for a loop when a large scale prison break floods the streets of Maxville with criminals. The gang has to scramble to re-apprehend them all before too much damage can be done. While also trying to track down who orchestrated such a huge breakout in the first place, and why.





	1. Match Your Mentor

It was senior year. 

The year they finally got some hands-on, real world, actual superhero experience. Ya know. Aside from the hands-on, real world, actual superhero experience they got at prom freshman year. That didn’t count. It wasn’t sanctioned by the school. Moderated by adults. Or able to be graded. 

But things were different now. They were seniors, either already eighteen and able to participate on real hero cases, alongside real heroes. Or else with parent signed permission slips giving them the freedom to participate in Sky High’s internship program. 

Everyone gathered in the gym where they would receive their mentor matches. All dressed for the occasion in the costumes they planned to wear for their debuts. 

Will was decked out in white, blue, and red –like his parents. A form-fitting but not skin-tight body suit. It hugged his figure to reduce on drag while flying, but remained lose and pliant enough to allow freedom of movement when fighting with super-strength and punching bad guys through walls. On his chest was the stylized image of a castle rampart, very similar to the Commander’s. 

Layla, maintained her conviction to only use her powers when the situation demanded it. After the incident at prom in their freshman year, and over the course of the interim years between then and this moment, that conviction had not changed, but she had relaxed the rigidity of it. She would still only try to use her powers in service of the greatest possible good. But determining what the ‘greatest good’ actually was would take experience and wisdom that the she did not have. But the internship program could provide that. 

Layla showed up to meet her mentor dressed as if she were going for a hike in the woods. Dark green track pants, tight to her legs to prevent them catching on protruding twigs or branches, a sensible cotton top that was breathable, over which was thrown an active wear jacket in a lighter shade of green than the pants. All of it was bare and devoid of logos, emblems, or brands –both hero and commercial alike. In Layla’s opinion, neutrality was a key factor in mediating peace without the use of superpowers. She didn’t look much like a superhero, but she did look ready to make a difference. 

Magenta didn’t look all that much different than her regular daily aesthetic. Black and lavender two-tone hair twisted up into an avant guard style. Top, a blend of violet and dark teal. Long sleeved with a shorter sleeved shirt thrown over. Her fingerless gloves were replaced by leather bracers, buckled under the wrist and studded. The fishnets on her legs remained the same, but the black skirt over them was replaced by a pair of black shorts instead. Held up by a black leather belt, similarly studded like the bracers. Her clunky Doc Martins were replaced by combat boots fit for running or climbing. Like Layla, she didn’t look much like a superhero, but she did look ready to take on the world. 

Ethan was a wash of warm colors. Yellow, orange, and red. All splashed across his costume in random swirls and lines. Like the color patterns of the slick he could morph his body into. Like Layla and Magenta Ethan’s costume was devoid of symbols or logos. He hadn’t yet decided on an emblem yet. He was still figuring out his hero brand. But he was solid in his representation of liquid. He knew what he was, the next step was figuring out what he wanted to be. 

Zach’s costume showed clear Legion of Superheroes inspiration. A mostly white jumpsuit with a single wide yellow stripe going down the middle. White arms and white hips and thighs. But the neck of his high collar, the front of his chest, going down his belly, under the belt, and the inside of his legs was an almost blinding day-glow yellow. In the center of his chest was a black star, the only dark color to be found anywhere on him. From the moment they first met in freshman year, Zach knew he was destined for great things. He had his costume planned out since before his enrollment in Sky High. Now it was senior year and his time to shine! Figuratively as well as literally. 

“Zach, you look great!” Magenta commented. 

“Thanks, but I’m nowhere as cool looking as Will!” He replied, indicating their friend. “Look at you, man, you look just like the Commander!” 

Will gave a modest little blush and scratched the back of his head distractedly. After so many years of getting compared to his father at school, he was –sort of- finally getting used to it. But today was different. Today was their internship match. That meant he would actually be –one day- filling his father’s shoes. That was a whole new kind of comparison and pressure, and Will was finding that he still hadn’t quite figured out how to handle it. 

He might have said something in reply to the complement. But was cut off before any words could escape, by the gym’s double doors banging open, and another costumed figure storming in. 

A black bodysuit, separate kevlar armor plates protecting his chest, mid-section, shoulders, thighs, and shins. All a similar shade of black as the suit underneath. The only color on the suit was the occasional red piping here and there outlining the contours of his form. A black domino mask covered his face, but even with it on there was no mistaking who it was. It wasn’t the two streaks of red in his long hair that gave it away. Nor was it the fact that both his arms were currently on fire from his clenched fists to his elbows. It was the way he stomped up to the group –as if he were angry at the world- that truly gave away his identity. 

“Warren?” Layla blinked at him. “What are you doing here?”

Warren Peace was one year ahead of them in school. Last year was his senior year. He got to fulfill his internship before any of them got to even start theirs. He should be out now. Certified to practice independently and fight the good fight as his own hero with his own identity. There was no reason for him to be reporting for internship orientation and mentor matches. 

Unless he was reporting as a mentor? 

That seemed remarkably unlikely. 

Taking up a place in line next to Will, Warren crossed his arms over his chest with a silent snarl. For half a moment, it looked like the temperamental pyrokinetic wasn’t going to answer. Finally, he looked across Will to Layla to answer her question. “My _mentor_ -“ he somehow managed to make the word sound like it was spelled with only four letters “-didn’t think Barron Battle’s son was ready to be an independent hero.”

“No way!” Ethan blinked at him, voice raising an octave. “So, they’re making you repeat a grade!?”

“Not senior year.” He shook his head. “Just my internship.”

“So, you’ll be interning with the rest of us?” Zach blinked at the –currently still on fire- pyrokinetic. 

Warren’s lip curled in a silent snarl, but said nothing. 

“At the same time as us.” Magenta corrected. “Internships are one-on-one with our mentors, not group activities. It’s like the old sidekick system, except they don’t pick our names and costumes, and we’re not stuck with them for our whole careers. As soon as the internship’s up we pick our own names and go out to be our own superheroes.”

“Unless you’re ‘unfit’ and have to take a do-over.” Warren growled to no one in particular. 

There was a beat of silence in which no one did anything but stare at the pyrokinetic’s blazing biceps. 

Will cleared his throat. “You’re- uh, you’re still on fire, there, dude.”

“I know.” Warren growled back, making no move to extinguish his flames. 

“Ya gonna put that out?” Will pressed. “Like, maybe before the grown-ups show up to tell us what mentors we matched with.”

“Stronghold, we’re grown-ups too now.” The pyrokinetic reminded him. “Who gives a flying fork what they think?”

“You do.” Layla announced without missing a beat. “Obviously. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, lining up with the rest of us, to take your do-over like the good hero-in-training you’re so desperate to prove you are.” She fixed him with a level glare, her emerald eyes blazing brighter than his flames. “You can drop the brooding tough-guy act, Warren. We all know you here. Your first mentor failed you because he couldn’t see past the fact that you’re Barron Battle’s son, so now you’re back to prove that you’re not a villain. You’re your own person, with your own hopes and dreams, and strength and weaknesses, and you want to be judged based on who you are instead of what people think you are.”

Uncrossing his arms, hands balling into fists at his sides, flames spreading from his elbows to his shoulders and across his chest, Warren fixed Layla with a hostile glare of his own. “Ya know what, Hippie-!” 

“What?” She took a step closer to him, raising her chin, refusing to be intimidated. 

She was the first of their group to befriend Warren Peace. To get in through his barriers, work her way under his walls, like stubborn roots. Slipping under the foundation, growing through the fill, until the wall finally cracked under the force of nature that was Layla Williams. She knew him better than any of the others. She knew when his intimidation tactics were truly the warning they were meant to be, and when they were the defense mechanism of a lost and scared child desperate for approval but equally terrified of rejection, who would rather push people away than let them get close enough to hurt him. 

Right now. This. This was the latter of the two. 

Warren extinguished his flames. Throwing his arms up in frustration. “It’s not worth fighting over.”

Layla smirked. 

It took her a while to figure it out, but a gentle touch was not the way to calm the passionate fires of Warren Peace. For Warren, peace could only be gained through equality. Matching temper for temper. To set his stubbornness against your own. Like would recognize like and the raging flames would be banked by dense hardwoods. A wilting flower would have been consumed, but a formidable oak would stand against the blaze. 

That was also one of the reasons why Will and Warren managed to become such good friends. 

Will might not be as aggressive or volatile as Warren, but he was just as willful and stubborn. The two were evenly matched in that regard. Equal, but contrasting. If ever there was a need for a team-up in their future, the duo of Will and Warren would be immovable and unstoppable. 

Layla smiled, it was actually better that Warren was doing his internship at the same time as them. What Magenta said was true, internships were not group activities. They wouldn’t be interning together. But having a friend who was also taking his internship would be a great support and a big help –for both of them. Warren and Will both. One, trying to live down his father’s reputation. The other, trying to live up to it. They were both under equal pressures. Not the same, but equal. Not kind, but like. Warren and Will would lift each other up, while other friends could just stand at their side. 

The double doors of the gym opened again. But this time, it wasn’t a late student storming in late with a showy entrance and display of temper. 

This time with was Principal Powers, followed by a procession of established and well known heroes. 

The Commander was the first one they recognized. Will’s dad being the one they all knew best. 

But there was also Flamebird, Mara Peace, Warren’s mother. 

She was one of the few heroes like Will who had two powers. Pyrokinesis (which she passed on to Warren), and flight. Her colors, unsurprisingly, were yellow and orange –the colors of fire. A bright, skin-tight suit that hugged every inch of his figure and looked as if it might have been painted on, with an umbra fade to the colors starting with yellow at her boots and climbing into a deep orange at her shoulders. Her hair was cut into a short pixie-bob and was a color so red, it made Layla’s look brown in comparison. It was the same shade of red, in fact, as the two red streaks in Warren’s hair. A domino mask the same shape and style as Warren’s covered her eyes, but unlike his, hers was not black but the same shade of orange as her shoulders. In fact, there didn’t seem to be any black on her costume at all. A rather striking contrast from her son whom was wearing all black. 

She smiled at all of them as she entered and waved to her son. 

Warren put his face in his hand and groaned. Between the gaps of his fingers, where the domino mask didn’t cover, one could see that his cheeks were flushing with embarrassment. Nobody wanted their dorky old mother around when you were about to meet what would essentially be your boss for the next year. 

After Flamebird was one who wasn’t anybody’s parent, but was no less famous. 

Titan was an older hero. Not yet at what was considered ‘retirement age’ for their community, but certainly older than anyone’s parents. If ever asked why he stayed in the business so long after everyone from his graduating class –and, in fact, his generation- had long since thrown in the towel, Titan would laugh and jokingly say he would think about retirement after he was dead. His power was fairly basic and straightforward, no nuances or gimmicks. He grew from the height and size of an average person to something the size of Nakatomi Tower. 

His costume was fairly unremarkable compared to Flamebird and the Commander. No garish colors, or skintight suits. No mask either. Like Jetstream and the Commander, Titan’s face was exposed for the world to see. He wore what looked like a mundane and unassuming white cotton tank-top above a pair of fatigue pants that looked like they might have been military issue. Being from the old guard, from a time when the government and military was trying to contract supers as private soldiers, it wasn’t out of the question to assume. His boots, likewise, looked military issued, but along their sides were painted yellow and black diagonal stripes and printed with the words “DO NOT CROSS!” A detail that looked absurd so tiny. But when he grew to the size of a building, his clothes grew with him and the warning on the boots became a practical and necessary warning sign for bystanders. 

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked the kids over, expression neutral. Not impressed with them yet, but also not yet having a reason to disapprove of them. 

Behind Titan, almost hidden behind Titan, was a thin man with his face completely covered. His everything completely covered, actually. From the top of his head, to the tips of his fingers, to the toes of his feet. He wore more of a morphsuit than a contemporary unitard. He wasn’t overly tall, but he was so slender and lithe that if gave the impression that he was tall. He didn’t so much walk into the room as he did glide into it. None of them had ever seen this hero before, but they new of him from reputation. This guy couldn’t be anyone but Wraith, the shadow hero. 

His power was something that one would generally associate with villainy. He traveled through darkness. Any shadow that was large enough for a human body became a portal for him. He could teleport into or out from any room or space so long as there was a shadow for him to pass through. 

It was impossible to see his face through the morphsuit shroud, but by the movement of his head, sweeping from one end of the line to the other, it was clear that he was surveying the kids. It was just impossible to tell what Wraith actually thought with his face so completely covered. 

Next to Wraith stood Hardplace. A relatively young hero. Still in his mid-twenties, barely older than Will and his friends themselves. Hardplace had graduated from Sky High only six years before Will and the gang’s freshman year. But he became very high profile very quickly when he saved a senator’s idiot teenaged son from a prank gone wrong. Senator Elena Juarez-Feldman had been spearheading a new clean-water initiative and her son though it would be hilarious to mess with all the gauges in the Maxville water treatment plant they were touring. Unfortunately, that included pressue gauges, and a number of pipes broke, flooding several parts of the complex. Young Mr. Juarez-Feldman was caught up in the current carried away by the water. 

That was where Hardplace came in. His power was to convert any substance, be it gas or liquid, into a solid. He solidified the water carrying the senator’s son, rendering it immobile and just walked across the surface to pluck Young Mr. Juarez-Feldman out by his exposed shoulder. 

The incident was in the news for weeks, and Hardplace was instantly a household name. 

Finally, the last to enter, was a hero none of them really knew much about. She was relatively new to spite being the same age as their parents. 

Bedrock sauntered in, wearing climbing shoes instead of the more common boots that most heroes seemed to favor. Her costume was in ivory and brown. Tight pants with a wide utility belt. Equally tight shirt with a high collar, but only three quarter sleeves. On her head, she wore a spelunking helmet with goggles that came down to hide her eyes. Her mouth was pursed into a line. Not technically a frown, but definitely not a smile either. More like she was thinking. Decided on what she actually thought about the young heroes before her.

“As you know, we’re no longer practicing the old and antiquated sidekick system.” Principal Powers began, addressing her students –and Warren. “The mentor system is still new and we’re working out the kinks in how matches are determined.”

Did that sound like an apology? It was pitched sort of like an apology. 

The kids all turned their heads to look at Warren. But he had his arms crossed and was starring dead-ahead, not making eye-contact with anyone. 

“As you know, your parent cannot be your mentor because of the risk of creating a conflict of interest.” Powers continued to explain. “We tried matching mentors with students based off complementary or contrasting powers. But that didn’t take personalities or personal bias into account.”

That was definitely, definitely an apology. 

Once again, everyone looked at Warren. But he was still looking anywhere but at another person. 

“This year we have tried to take all this into account when matching mentors.” Powers called everyone’s attention back to her. “Also, we have added a new Open-Door policy. If you have a problem with your mentor, of any kind, come see me at my office here at school and I will look into the matter and –if necessary- find you a more compatible mentor. Are there any questions?”

Oh, they had tons of questions now. But not for Principal Powers. When this was over, every single one of them was going to pounce on Warren and demand details of what exactly went so wrong between him and his first mentor that Principal Powers decided to overhaul the system. 

“Alright, then.” Powers cleared her throat when no one raised their hand. “Come forward when your name is called. Ethan Daniels.” 

Ethan stepped forward, swallowing a lump in his throat and looking nervous. He would be picked first. 

“Your mentor shall be Hardplace.” Powers announced. 

Hardplace stepped forward to shake the younger man’s hand. But Ethan was so nervous, that he melted into a puddle of anxiety before their hands could touch. 

“Oh, um…?” Hardplace looked up at the older, more seasoned heroes. 

“He’ll be fine.” Powers assured them. 

Ethan just needed to build up his confidence. An older, more legendary mentor would have just made him feel less worthy. But someone who was young, like Hardplace, someone who might be fairly famous but was still new enough to understand and empathize with a young hero still trying to find themselves and their own identity, that was exactly what Ethan needed. 

Powers turned her attention back to the line of young heroes in training. “Magenta Vitz. Your mentor will be Titan.”

Magenta stepped forward to stand next to her mentor. Even not using his powers, at his baseline height, the man was a skyscraper. Standing well over six feet tall, maybe pushing seven. But muscular and wide to make the height proportionate. Titan was easily three time’s her size and standing next to him Magenta looked every bit like the tiny guinea pig she turned into. 

The image was rather comical and Principal Powers indulged herself in a small smile before returning her attention to the task at hand. 

“Zach Braun.” She called. “Your mentor will be Wraith.”

Zach gave an almost hesitant glance at his friends before he stepped forward to take up a place next to his assigned mentor. With the all black costume and dark and brooding air about him, Zach would have assumed they’d match that guy with Warren. Swallowing a protest he didn’t even realize he had, Zach stepped out of the line and moved to stand next to Wraith. 

The older man turned his head, and very clearly looked the boy up and down. Noting the spotless white and obnoxiously bright day-glow yellow suit. But if Wraith had an opinion about it, he did not voice it. Just put a single hand on his hip and stood there silently. 

“Layla Williams.” Principal Powers fixed the younger woman with an affectionate smile. Aside from the occasional picket or protest, Layla was a model student. “Your mentor will be Flamebird.”

“But that doesn’t make sense.” Layla shook her head. Ah, so today was a ‘protest day’ not a ‘model student day’. Powers resisted the urge to sigh as Layla elaborated. “Ms. Peace is a fire-user. I make planets grow. Fire burns plants. Our powers won’t work together.”

But Flamebird just offered a gentle smile. Warm like the summer sun. Nurturing and full of light. “But they’re not matching people based solely on powers.” She reminded the younger woman. “Personality and personal philosophy also play a hand in the mentor matches. Also, what your teachers think you still need to learn and who’s best to give you the lesson.”

Layla continued to look skeptical. 

“You look like you’re on your way to the gym.” Flamebird continued. “What were you hoping you and your mentor would do today after you matched?”

Layla hesitated. Unsure. She didn’t know Ms. Peace as well as she knew Mr. Stronghold. The few times they’d met over the past few years, it was always in passing. Warren never wanting his dorky mom around to embarrass him in front of his friends. Mara Peace always seemed nice. But it was hard to forget that this was also a woman who had a love-affair with a supervillain. Who conceived a child with a supervillain, and –if Warren’s convoluted feelings and behaviors were any indication- allowed said supervillain to be present and influential in that child’s life. It was hard not to doubt her judgment. 

But there was no apparent double meaning or malice in the question. 

“I, uh, I don’t like the idea of using my powers against others.” Layla explained. “So, I was thinking my mentor and I could explore preventative heroism, or something. Like, like stopping disasters before they happen and stuff. Or, maybe, helping people recover from disasters. Stuff like that. The, uh, the less glamorous but more meaningful side of heroism.”

That gentle smile widened into one of approval and agreement. “I think that’s a great idea!”

Visibly relaxing, Layla smiled back. So, they weren’t matched based on their powers, but on the parts of heroism they valued. Layla stepped forward to stand next to Flamebird. This wouldn’t be so bad. 

The only two left who hadn’t been matched were Warren and Will. 

“Will Stronghold.” Announced Principal Powers. “Your mentor will be Bedrock.”

Nodding, Will left Warren’s side to stand next to his assigned mentor. He didn’t know much about Bedrock. Will wasn’t really much for keeping up with superhero news. But he knew about the vast majority of Maxville’s local hero population through stories from his parents, or friends. None of them had ever mentioned a ‘Bedrock’ before. 

“So, uh, this is nice.” Will ventured, hoping to break the ice. He was imagining a mentorship going similar to those Kung Fu movies where the young kid gets trained by the wise old teacher and the slowly develop an affectionate comradery. Nothing like the formal teacher-student dynamics that went on in regular high school. 

But Bedrock only offered a mild grunt in return. She, it seemed was in no rush to break the ice. 

Everyone turned their attention to the only young hero, and mentor that had not had their match announced. 

The Commander looked at Warren. 

“What?” Warren gaped. One short clip of a syllable. He stared at the Commander, then turned an accusatory glare at Principal Powers, the whited out eye-sockets of his domino mask narrowing at her. “Why?”

“Don’t be mad at Lynda.” Commanded the Commander. “I requested to be your mentor.”

“Why!?” Warren repeated. Demanded, actually. Those whited out eyes of his mask were fixed on the Commander now. 

For half a second, an unreadable expression flashed across the Commander’s face. Guilt? Affection? Fear? Disappointment? Hope? It was impossible to tell what it really was. The expression was there and gone again in the space of a second. Looking around at the room full of people watching this exchange, the Commander cleared his throat. Whatever the real reason was, he was not about to say it in front of a room full of people who didn’t know him. Sure, they knew who he was, but they didn’t really know him, and they didn’t know Warren, and they didn’t know the history there. 

Finally, Steven Stronghold offered the boy a lopsided grin, and answered the question as if it should have been obvious. “You’re my son’s best friend. I just want you to succeed.”

Warren frowned. 

But Principal Powers smiled, thinking the matter was settle. “Warren Peace, your mentor will be the Commander.”


	2. First Impressions

Layla wasn’t quite sure what she really was expecting when she left with Flamebird. The older woman talked about preventing disasters, but how could one prevent something they couldn’t predict? Unless clairvoyance was also one of her powers. 

Layla was pretty sure it was not. 

Flamebird was a flyer, like Will and Jetstream. But unlike Will and Jetstream, she was not phenomenally fast. The rushing wind was only rushing because they were so high up, not because they were traveling at speeds man was not meant to travel. To spite the altitude and the wind, Layla wasn’t cold. Flamebird’s natural body heat was enough to keep her warm. Of course, she would be warm. Like her son, Mara Peace was fire personified. 

Warren had always been warm to the touch too. Warmer than the average person ever was. 

But Layla pushed that thought from her mind. Thinking about your mentor’s son and how warm the feel of his skin was while you were supposed to be paying attention and learning valuable lessons just seemed rather inappropriate. 

After a flight that would have taken Will or Jetstream only seconds, but for Flamebird carrying a passenger was over twenty minutes, they landed somewhere in the hills outside Maxville. 

They landed on an open and barren hillside, with charred soil, and the collapsed and broken remains of burned trees. 

Layla looked around at the destruction. The sheer natural carnage that fire wrought. “What happened here?”

“A brush fire.” Flamebird answered, as if the explanation should have been obvious. 

It was nearing the end of summer. Days were hot and the land was dry. It was September now, summer was nearly over, but autumn’s rains wouldn’t come for another couple of months. It didn’t take much to start a fire around this time of year, and Layla felt suddenly very self-conscious for asking. Self-conscious, and worried that Flamebird might be insulted, that she might think Layla was implying she had started the brush fire. 

If she’d asked the same thing of Warren, he for sure would have gotten defensive.

“So, ugh,” the girl cleared her throat, “so then what are we doing here?”

“We’re gonna prevent a possible disaster.” Explained the older woman, calmly. As if the idea that Layla might have thought she burned the hills hadn’t even occurred to her. “See that, down there?”

Flambird pointed a yellow-fingered glove down the hill at the town it was overlooking. 

“That is Maxville Adjacent.” She explained. “Not technically part of Maxville proper, but still part of Maxville county. Anytime the subject of road repair, city power, sewage maintenance, or surface drainage comes up, the council suddenly realizes that there’s not enough money in the budget for Max Adjent. Imagine how much worse things would be if a mudslide were to crash down on them.”

Mara did not mention that she and Warren also lived in Maxville Adjacent. 

“A mud slide?” Layla looked down at the charred earth they were standing on. 

It seemed solid enough right now. But she knew how soil behaved. When water saturated the dirt, it also loosened it up. Made it softer, easier to work with gloved hands. But on a larger scale, on a hillside. It wouldn’t just make it soft, water would make the land heavy. It could collapse under its own weight. Slide down the hill and wash away or burry whatever was below it. –In this case, a town full of people. 

That was why hill fires –brush fires and forest fires- were so dangerous. Not just because of the fires themselves –although those were plenty harmful on their own- but because they burned out and killed the vegetation. 

Plants, with their roots, held the land in place. Kept it stable and firm. Reduced the likelihood of a mudslide. Prevented a disaster. 

With a smile spreading over her face, Layla realized why Flamebird brought her out here. “You want me to regrow this hill.”

The older woman nodded. She bent down scooped up a handful of sooty earth. “Wood ash is high in calcium, potassium, and magnesium. So, it makes a more fertile soil. It also lowers the pH balance making the soil less acidic, yielding healthier plants.” She let the dry dust trickle through her fingers until her hand was empty and she stood. “You don’t need to do much, just enough so that whatever you grow will be strong on its own by the time fall comes around and it starts raining.”

“Okay.” Layla nodded. 

So far, her first mission with her mentor was shaping up to be exactly her kind of thing. She was skeptical at first, but it was starting to look like Flamebird was a perfect match for her. Uncomplimentary powers be damned! 

Kneeling down, Layla laid her hands on the soft earth. Flamebird was right, it was healthy, fertile soil. But it was so soft. Light, and fluffy. And dry. Very, very dry. Whatever moisture there might have been in the land was sucked out in the fire. But Maxville was a valley city, not a desert one. There was always water. Deeper down. The water table resting just above the bedrock. If there was water then the plants would grow. 

Layla felt for the existing roots of what had been here. Reaching out with her power. It was hard to describe to others. If anyone ever asked her to explain how her power worked she knew she would sound crazy. It was like having a sixth sense. Beyond just taste, or smell, or sight. Layla could feel the pulse of nature. Sense what roots were dry, charred, and dead, and which ones might still have life in them. It was these that she focused her attention on. The still living roots of the grasses and shrubs that were native to Maxville’s hills, the plants that belonged here. 

The life in them was weak and tired, so she lent them a little of her own power. Not much. Just enough to bolster their natural resilience and coax them to grow. 

Between her fingers and around her palms, where Layla’s hands made contact with the ground, tiny little green sprigs began to sprout out of the soil. Small at first, and keeping tight to her hands. But as she fed the earth just a little more of her own power, the greenery spread. In uneven and inconsistent patterns, following the roots that had life left in them. Short. But very, very green!

“That’s wonderful, Layla!” She heard Flamebird gasp. What? Was she not expecting a chlorokinetic to chlorokinect?

Layla opened her eyes to see the barren hill they were standing on covered in a light blanket of fluffy green sprouts. It was nothing as huge or intimidating as giant trees or snaking vines. But it was what the hillside needed. She smiled again. Proud of her work. 

Flamebird sat down in the grass next to her student, overlooking the town. The view was so much nicer now. With a cascade of bright green trickling down the slope. 

Shifting her position, Layla allowed herself to relax next to the older woman. 

Everyone was so anxious before their mentor matches. Worried about being judged as sidekicks again. Undervalued because their powers weren’t very impressive. Nervous about living up to a parent’s reputation. And then when Warren showed up and announced that a mentor could flunk them and they wouldn’t be allowed to be a hero unless they repeated the program… Everyone had reason to be nervous for their mentor matches. 

But Layla –so far- was rather pleased with her match. 

She never really got to know Warren’s mother before. She worked a day job in addition to being a superhero, so she was rarely home. Warren was self-conscious about letting the gang over to his house. After seeing the splendor that the Strongholds lived in, he couldn’t help but feel inferior. So there just weren’t many opportunities for Layla’s path to cross with Mara’s. When they did, Warren was always trying to push his mother out of the house, or else kick the gang out. Apparently, he was afraid of his friends talking to his mom. 

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why. Not after meeting her. 

Mara Peace seemed so sweet. Kind and nurturing. Quiet, patient, and temperant. Not at all like her hot tempered and volatile son. Warren probably didn’t want her ruining his ‘bad boy’ image. (Not that that image was already ruined for her the night she crossed paths with him at the Paper Lantern. Goodness forbid he let other people know, but Layla knew. Warren Peace was really a big softy.) He wanted everyone to believe he was dangerous. Like fire. 

Looking sideways at her mentor, Layla considered that. Warren was volatile and passionate, like fire. But he got his fire from his mother. But Flamebird was so calm and easy going. Not like fire at all.

“Who says I’m not like fire at all?” Flambird blinked behind her mask at the younger woman. 

Layla blinked back, not realizing she said that last part out loud. Oh, crap! Did she just accidentally insult her mentor? That wasn’t like her at all! Layla scrambled to explain. “It’s just- I was just thinking- about Warren. And fire. Warren is all ‘grr! arg! rawr!’ like, uh, like a dragon, ya know. Fire breathing monster.” A pause. “I mean- I don’t mean to call your son a monster. He is my friend! It’s just, he puts on this show! He wants people to think he’s a fire breathing monster so they stay away from him.” Another pause. “Not that I’m trying to tell you about your son or anything. I mean, you’re his mother. I’m just his dorky hippie friend. I just- it’s just- you two are so different, and I- I think Warren’s a lot like fire. Angry and hard to get close to. But you seem like the exact opposite. You’re nice and- and stuff.”

She was babbling and they both knew it. Layla just couldn’t understand why she was so incredibly nervous all of a sudden. Was it because she was afraid she might have insulted her mentor, or afraid of insulting Warren’s mother? It didn’t matter. She had no reason to be nervous. It wasn’t like anything she said was news. Mara was Warren’s mother. She had to know what her son was like. 

To her great relief, Flamebird just laughed. A light, clear sound of true amusement. Red-painted lips stretching into a smile that reached her mask.

“Why can’t fire be ‘nice and stuff’?” She asked. 

Layla paused for a moment, wondering if it was a trick question. Finally, she looked around at the hill she just regrew. A hill that just a few moments before had been burnt out and barren. Dead looking to the untrained eye. “Well, fire is destructive.”

“Mm, that’s true. Fire can be very destructive.” Nodded the older woman. “But so can plants. Roots can upturn sidewalk slabs and displace water mains. They can weaken foundations and crumble walls. Anything can be destructive if you want it to. Elemental gifts like yours and mine doubly so. That doesn’t mean that’s their only attribute. Have you considered that humanity would never have advanced as far as we have without fire? I’m not just talking about primitives shivering in caves. Consider the steam engine, impossible without fire. Or an electrical turbine that uses heat to spin it.”

Pursing her lips, Layla continued to look skeptical. 

“Consider the sun.” Flamebird lifted a gloved hand to the sky. “It’s what gives your plants the light they need to grow. Light, and heat, and vitamin D, and whatever else. The sun is fire. In fact, one could make the argument that without fire there could be no life.” 

“You have a very positive way of looking at things.” Layla concluded. She wasn’t sure whether or not she actually believe that or not, but she liked the idea very much. Mara Peace seemed like the kind of person who could find the positive side of almost anything. It was a very nurturing outlook and Layla liked it. 

It was hard to believe this was the same woman who had an affair with Barron Battle and raised the moody and volatile Warren Peace. 

…

Will felt about as nervous as he did on his first day of school. 

Bedrock was silent. Not stoically silent, just non-talkative. She led Will out to the school’s parking lot where the buses dropped off students and students and faculty with approved flying or hover vehicles parked. Technically being the first week of a new school year, the lot was packed. Not just with student and staff vehicles, but with whatever equipment the mentors who couldn’t fly used to get up to the school. 

Crossing the lot, Warren saw Magenta walking in the literal shadow of Titan whom lead her to what looked like a modified Boeing F/A-XX fighter jet, the cockpit expanded and split to accommodate a passenger as well as the pilot. Will looked to where Bedrock was leading him to see if her vehicle was as cool as a freaking military jet. 

It was not. 

It was a scuffed and old looking dirt bike. 

Okay, well, they were over a thousand feet up in the air in a floating school, the only way to reach was to fly. So, it was safe to assume that it was a flying dirt bike. A flying motorcycle. Like from Harry Potter. That was pretty cool. The thing just didn’t look like much. It looked like something someone might dig out of junk yard. The kind of beat up piece of crap that just needed a catchy musical montage to fix it up. 

“I assume you’re not afraid of heights.” Bedrock announced. The first words she actually said to Will since they were matched at the gym. “Since you have Jetstream’s power.”

“Oh. Uh. Heights are fine.” Will stumbled over his words to try and answer her promptly. He’d never had a one-on-one mentor before and didn’t really know how these things were supposed to go. Like, was it a sort of ‘Big Brother’ program? We’re they supposed to be an older friend and positive influence. Or was it more like a teacher student thing? Like the old Kung Fu movies. What was the protocol here? 

“Get on.” Barked Bedrock. 

With a bit of a start, Will climbed onto the back of the dirt bike. He was about to grab onto Bedrock’s waist for hand-holds. That was how he always saw people riding motorcycles in movies. With the arms around the waist. But then he thought that might not be appropriate, so he moved his hands to her shoulders instead. Seriously, where did a passenger hold on, on a bike?

Will wasn’t given much time to deliberate. Almost the moment he was seated, Bedrock reved up the engine, peeled out of her parking space, and shot them off the edge of the school. Will experienced one heart-stopping moment of panic as he felt himself slipping off the back of the bike and held on tighter to its driver before he remember that he could fly and that if he did fall off, he could easily just fly along side it –which in retrospect probably would have been the more practical plan and he couldn’t understand why Bedrock didn’t suggest it. She knew he inherited his mother’s flight. I mean, if an inexperienced teenager like him could think of it…

But they landed without incident. So, Will decided not to bring it up again unless it became an issue. He certainly didn’t want to start off his internship by being ‘insubordinate’. He still wasn’t sure what Warren did in order for his mentor to fail him, but whatever it was, Will was determined to learn from his friend’s mistake and not repeat it. 

He looked around at where they landed. 

A rooftop. 

Climbing off the bike, Will noted that it was a short building, relative to those around it. Short, but wide. With a number of scattered antennae dotting the surface and a single access door. 

“Where are we?” Will asked. 

“Maxville Center for Seismological Research and the Natural Sciences.” Supplied Bedrock. She crossed the roof to the lone access door and held it open for Will. “You flyers have a bad habit of keeping your head in the clouds. Our first lesson is going to be not to forget the ground beneath your feet.”

“Oh. Okay. Sure.” Will practically hopped to follow her. 

The stairwell was very well lit. Cream colored walls and shiny and fresh caution signs and instructions on what to do in case of earthquake or fire. 

“Maxville is a very interesting place.” Bedrock was saying as she led Will down two floors and held another door open for him. “We have the hills to the north, which are alluvial and soft. But the west we’ve got the Max Valley which is actually a convergent plate boundary. Do you know what that is?”

“I, uh, I don’t.” Will had to admit. 

Bedrock just rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath that sounded something like ‘typical flyer’, but Will couldn’t be sure. 

“It means that Maxville was built on the site where two tectonic plates meet.” She explained. “Where they collide, actually. That’s why we have the mountains to the east. Unlike the hills, they’re not made of soft mud, but are where the Earth’s very crust have been thrown up by another plate forcing its way under.”

“Oh.” Will nodded, only really partially understanding. 

“Like I said, Maxville is a very interesting place.” Continued Bedrock as if the boy hadn’t spoken. “It’s very prone to natural disasters. With the fault line, come frequent earthquakes, with the earthquakes come foundation collapses, water main or gas line breaks, floods and fires, soil displacements and mudslides. These are things that can happen at any time since earthquakes can’t be predicted.”

Will bit the inside of his cheek. That was just from earthquakes. That wasn’t counting the seemingly annual brushfires that happed at the end of summer every year. Or the floods that came down from the mountains in the fall when the rains started. That wasn’t even taking into account daily petty crime. Of the giant semi-secret flying school that hovered in a holding pattern above the city that could fall and crush some person and their new house! Maxville was an amazingly disaster prone place. Why did anyone live here?

Walking down the hall they passed windowed rooms with equipment measuring squiggly lines on graphs. Will didn’t know what it was, but it looked important. 

“So, uh, what do they do here at the Maxville Center for Psychological Research?” He asked. 

“Seismological.” Bedrock corrected him, frowning at him. 

“Right. Seismological.” Will nodded, trying to keep up. “So, what’s that?”

Behind the lenses of her goggles, Bedrock rolled her eyes. What were they teaching kids these days? That a senior in high school didn’t know what ‘seismology’ was. “It’s the study of earthquakes and plate movements.” 

“Oh.” Will said again, trying to keep up. 

“One big earthquake could raze Maxville to the ground.” Bedrock announced flatly. “There was a supervillain who tried once. To destroy Maxville –and with it all the other supers who seem to congregate here.”

All the supers that lived here. Will thought of his parents and their house. Of Layla right next door and her family. Of their friends from school who all also lived in Maxville with their families. Of Warren and his… -and of all the not quite so noble supers locked up in Maxville Penitentiary. All of it and everyone people he knew and loved, and strangers he’d never met, all crushed and buried under the earth. 

“Who would do something so terrible!” He asked. 

“Her name was Faultline.” Bedrock supplied, and offered no further commentary. 

Finally, at the end of the hall, she stopped them in front of the last door. This room was not as finely lit as the others. In fact, it was rather dim by comparison. Not unlike his parent’s inner sanctum at home. Serviceable lighting, but not overly lit. Similarly like the inner sanctum, it was full of displays. A pair of fingerless gloves and gauntlets. Combat boots with climbing cleats instead of rubber treads. And, against the back wall, a costume. Almost all brown with accents of crimson and ivory. 

“This is where they study how Faultline did it, and how Jetstream was able to stop her.”

…

Warren watched all the others file out with their respective mentors. His mother blew him a kiss before leaving with Layla and he was glad for the mask he was wearing so that no one else could see just how embarrassed he was. 

Principal Powers was the last to leave, she moved towards Warren. Opened her mouth as if to offer something reassuring. Changed her mind and closed it again without a single word being spoken. Instead, the placed what was supposed to be a reassuring hand on his shoulder with a sort of stinted pat-pat. Then left. 

Warren and the Commander were left alone. 

Crossing his arms over his chest, the pyrokinetic glared at the older man. The whited-out lenses of his mask narrowing, as if to silently demand what was actually going on. What his real motives were. The Commander never showed any particular favor to Warren before. As a matter of fact, the older man was consistently awkward around him. Like he didn’t know what he was supposed to do or say. 

Admittedly, Warren’s own behavior was also in that same genre. He never knew what to do or say around the Commander either. Sure, he was his best friend’s dad. But he was also the man who took his father from him and tore his family apart so much so that his mother had to go back to using her maiden name. How were you supposed to act around the guy who broke your family into pieces? 

A silence stretched between them. 

They were still standing in their same places from when the matches were being announced. Not that far apart at all. Easily within the same half-court. Yet it felt like there was a mountain between them. 

“So…” The Commander attempted to break the silence. “I, uh, I usually get my wife to fly me up here. I’m not a flyer myself. How do you usually get to and from school.”

“Bus.” Warran supplied. A short clip of an answer. 

Only about thirty percent of supers had the power of flight, and Sky High was in the sky. It wouldn’t do for seventy percent of the student body to be unable to actually get to school. So, they employed a number of flying busses that serviced all over Maxville. Maxville Crest, Valor Heights, Bedlam Unincorporated, and Maxville Adjacent. Since Warren obviously hadn’t inherited his mother’s power of flight, he would have to take whatever bus serviced his area. 

Steve felt stupid for asking. 

“Right. Well. Okay then.” He rocked back and forth on the heels of his feet. 

How did one talk to a child who’s parent you took away? It was a question Steve Stronghold never considered. Before his own son befriend Barron Battle’s son, Steve never thought he’d have to. Over the intervening years, he had plent of time to reflect on an answer to that question. But no answer came. 

“Mr. Stronghold.” Warren began. It was phrased politely. Warren Peace was always nothing but polite around Will’s parents. A bit abrupt and brief. Speaking in short clips. Always eager to flee the room. But still polite. “Can you look me in the eyes?”

It was then that Steve realized his gaze had been focused on the bleachers folded against the wall behind Warren. Not on the boy himself. He cleared his throat. “Your, uh, your eyes are covered.”

Reaching a black gloved hand up, Warren peeled the mask from his face, revealing dark eyes of a rich brown color. Barron Battle’s eyes. Warren looked so much like his father. If it weren’t for the fact that the hair was straight and not curly, and it had those two red streaks in it the same shade of red as Mara Peace’s hair, one could easily believe that he was Barron somehow miraculously restored to his youth –like with Royal Pain.

But the expression the boy was giving him didn’t belong on the face of Barron Battle. Without the mask, Steve could see the guarded desperation in Warren’s face. The longing to be accepted and the confusion he felt at the man who put his father away being matched with him as his new mentor. 

Truth be told, it was difficult for Steve lock gazes with those deep brown eyes. He looked away again. 

Steve couldn’t look Barron Battle son in the eyes. 

“Why’d you ask to be my mentor?” Warren repeated his question from earlier. They were alone now. It was just the two of them. No children, or strangers, or peers to give judgment. 

Steve was expecting the question. He knew Warren would want to come back to his motives. The answer he gave at the matches –while also true- was not a complete one. Steve had just hoped he had more time before having to put his answer into words. 

“I knew your father.” He began clumsily. 

“Know.” Warren corrected. “Present tense. He’s still alive. And you don’t know my father! You were his enemy, not his friend.” 

“And you were nine when he went to jail. You didn’t know him either!” The Commander shot back. 

Steve regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth, however. That was not what the boy needed to hear right now. He just looked so much like his father back when they were in school together. It was hard not to slip back into his old pattern of meeting vitriol with vitriol. But Warren wasn’t Barron. He wasn’t trying to antagonize Steve. He was just a lost and angry child. Looking for a little direction in the world and maybe a little validation along the way. Antagonizing him was not what Steve wanted to do. 

“I lived with him!” Warren roared back. 

Hands balled into fist as his sides, crumpling the soft latex domino mask. Steve was the light flickering of flames spark between the boy’s fingers and he wondered if that was lack of control due to nerves, or if the younger man actually was considering attacking him. 

“I know all of you like to call it an ‘affair’, but it wasn’t.” The boy continued to shout. “They were married. We lived together. For the first nine years of my life, my name was Warren Battle! Mom didn’t change it to her maiden name until after you took him away from us!”

Blinking, Steve opened his mouth to say something. Then quickly realized he had no idea what to say and closed it again. Admittedly, he and Barron never really spoke after high school. They weren’t friends. But he still had trouble imagining his old childhood rival, turned adulthood mortal enemy as anything even resembling ‘domestic’. Steve inhaled a breath and gathered his words. 

“Okay. So you lived with him.” Conceded the Commander. “But you were still just a child. I doubt even Barron would have exposed someone as young as you were to what he was really like. Do you even know what he did?”

“He was an independent contractor!” Warren answered without pause. Then, hesitated because he was just parroting explanations from his youth and he knew it. 

“A contract killer.” Steve informed him, rather ungently. He could understand Mara trying to glance over the uglier details when Warren was still a child. But he was an adult now –legally- and was both capable of understanding what his father really was, and had the right to know. 

“He was a soldier!” Warren continued to argue. 

Steve noted that the boy did not deny that his father was a killer. So, he did at least know that much. “A mercenary.”

“It was still sanctioned by someone.” Warren didn’t seem to want to give this up. He was apparently determined to redefine his father’s actions as something that was ‘not as bad’ as what everyone made them out to be. “My father wasn’t a criminal.”

“A jury of his peers and a judge are inclined to disagree with you.” The Commander informed him. 

Flames flickered in Warren’s clenched fists again and Steve noted how he shook his hands to try and ease the tension in them. So, it was nerves. Shoulders shaking, the boy lifted his domino mask back to his face and slid it into place over his eyes, effectively hiding all of his expression but the frown of his mouth. 

The fire was climbing up from his hands now. To his elbows. Higher. Over his shoulders. Teeth clenched with the effort to dampen his power. Fire was rage, and Warren Peace had more than his own fair share of it. 

“Is this why you wanted to be my mentor?” Demanded the boy, voice shaking as much as his shoulders. “So you could talk shirt about my father to my face and make me hate myself? Because I got enough to that with Hydro!”

The older man paused. It was never actually explained to him exactly how Hydro failed Warren as a mentor. Just that the two were originally matched based on their powers –fire and water- but that it was a bad match that didn’t take their personalities into account and the two men clashed with each other as much as with the bad guys. But Steve pushed it to the side. He didn’t want to derail this already difficult conversation with questions about his previous mentor. 

Instead, Steve just shook his head. 

“Listen…” He tried for a calming tone, but it came out more exasperated and pleading. “I didn’t just know your father as a villain.” Steve tried again. “I knew him in school.”

It was a little hard to tell with his mask back on, but Warren seemed unimpressed. Everyone knew The Commander and Barron Battle went to school together. They were in the same year. In the same graduating class. That didn’t mean anything.

“Before any of us were heroes or villains.” Continued Steve, choosing to interpret the boy’s silence as actually having the patience to listen. “When we were all just dumb kids trying to figure things out. Your dad and I ran in different circles and we were never friends. In fact, we clashed more often than not. But… I was there. I saw his decent into villainy and I just… I thought…”

He faulted, at another loss as to how to put his feelings into words. Guys never had to talk about their feelings back in his day. He scratched the back of his head, trying to figure out how to explain. 

“Will really likes you,” Steve tried again, “and you seem like a nice enough kid. A little… a little moody. I’m not a big fan of all the black.” He waved his arm to indicate Warren’s costume. “But still, at your core, a good guy. I saw how you helped the others at that prom even though you didn’t have to and that speaks a lot to your character. You’re a genuinely good kid, Warren. I think you could be what your father could have become but chose not to.”

The boy was still frowning under his mask. Arms still on fire, he crossed them over his chest. Every single line and angle of his posture radiating skepticism. His voice cracked when he informed the Commander, “Hydro also said I’d become what my father was.”

“I didn’t say you’d become what your father was. I said you’d become what he could’ve been.” Steve was quick to assure the younger man. 

There was another pause. Then, voice was hesitant, almost as if he were afraid of the answer. Warren asked, “And what’s that?”

“A hero. Obviously.” Answered the Commander without hesitation.


	3. Ten Years of Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the tags I mention that Barron Battle is the only character allowed to actually swear. So expect lots of potty mouth in this chapter. 
> 
> Also violence. Not canon typical violence.

Battle didn’t start out in solitary confinement. 

Oh, he was never put in with the General Population. That would have just been asking for trouble! Maximum Security was where he went at first. Even inmates in Max Sec got visitation days. 

Mara didn’t bring Warren the first time. 

She was already waiting on her side of the glass when the guards brought him over. Checking her makeup in a hand mirror. Her hair was shorter than it was at his trial. Shorter, and jagged and uneven. Choppy. Like she’d cut it herself. 

Battle sat down. Up close, he could see that she was touching up her makeup to cover up the fact that she’d been crying. Her eyes were puffy and he could see the smears where she’d wiped away the trails of running mascara. But she smiled when she saw him pick up the phone on his side. One of her dazzling ‘here to save the day’ Hero of Flame smiles. Like a candle illuminating a dark room, a hearth chasing away the cold, sunlight shining on daisies. But the smile faltered, falling from her face almost as soon as she put it there. 

There wasn’t much to smile about in this situation. 

“I, uh, I didn’t wanna bring Warren yet because I didn’t know… what kind of state you’d be in.” She explained. 

He couldn’t help the short clip of a laugh at that statement. Battle was doing just fine. This was nowhere as bad as some of the places he’d been on the contracts he took over the years. A nice comfortable prison with reliable shelter and regular meals would always be worlds better than active warzones or toxic chemical mines. His frame of reference for ‘rough living’ was skewed differently than the average person’s. 

Mara, on the other hand, looked like a spiraling mess under her freshly applied makeup. 

“What kind of state are you in, Sparky?”

“Huh?” She blinked hazel eyes at him, a hazel so deep they looked almost golden. The mirror was back in her hand, checking her face again, and the line of her new bangs that she didn’t have before he was put away. “Oh. The hair. I’m… trying something new.”

Battle didn’t say anything. He knew from experience what it was like when things were spiraling out of control. Like you had no command over your own life. And you would do anything to feel like you were in charge of something. Just one small thing. Be it a high school production of Oklahoma, or a haircut. 

“How is Warren doing?” He asked instead, deciding to change the subject. 

“I don’t think he really understands what’s going on.” Mara admitted. She bit her bottom lip nervously. White teeth scraping over red painted lips as she thought about all the damage this whole ordeal was doing to her son. Still young and in his formative years. “I think he thinks this is just another one of your jobs that you’ve gone away on, and you’ll be coming home eventually.”

That made sense given his age and relatively little life experience. “Let him think that for a few more years. It’ll make the transition easier for him.”

“It’ll hurt more when he realizes you’re not coming home.” She informed him.

Battle shook his head. “No. By then I’ll have been gone so long he won’t care.” 

In Barron’s own personal experience, a boy thrived better without his father.

Mara gave him a rueful grin. “Barron, he’ll always care.”

…

On the next visiting day, Mara brought Warren with her. 

They were given a whole hour and Mara let Warren take up most of it. 

She sat the boy on her lap so Warren could see his father while they talked. The boy babbled on about the latest cartoon he was hyper-fixated on, and that the cat still ran from him. He asked when Battle was coming home and was disappointed when his father had to informed him, “Not for a very long time, Little Soldier.”

…

But there wasn’t a third visiting day. 

It was already yard legend that he stood up to the Commander. That the near invulnerable, super-strong, Hero of Justice and Truth had trouble taking Barron Battle down and putting him away. 

None of the other guys in Max Sec would ever admit to being afraid of him. But they gave him a wide birth whenever he walked the corridors. He had his own table during meals. No other man ever bumped him accidentally in the shower. Nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of a guy who got beat up by the Commander, got right back up again, and beat up the Commander right back! 

His cellmate even requested a transfer. 

That was still pending. 

For the most part, Battle enjoyed the space. 

But it was just a little lonesome. Not that Battle had any great desire to form deep friendships with any of these guys. He just missed the human contact. He was used to having an energetic and affectionate wife around who was warm and wile like fire, and an over-active child that seemed determined to get himself into trouble and shave years off Battle’s life from sheer nerves alone under foot. He missed idle conversation about pointless and stupid shit. Without making the conscious decision, Battle started listening in on the others’ conversations. To get his social interactions vicariously. 

Yard gossip. Who was who’s bitch. What was going on outside the prison walls. The world hadn’t ended yet. Celebrities still did drugs and crashed cars. The price of gas went up. People threw shoes at the president. What old and out of date girly magazines was the commissary offering now. 

“Damn! How come Flamebird don’ dress like that anymore!?” 

Battle almost skidded to a halt at the mention of his wife’s hero name. His attention turning, eyes seeking out the one who had spoken. 

It was a full table. One of them was holding a magazine in his hands. Not a girly magazine. A Hero News magazine. Not something that was supposed to be overtly sexual in nature. But the page they had it open to was one showing a lineup of female superheroes comparing their more recent costumes to their previous ones. Flamebird’s was one of them. 

Holding his lunch tray in his hands, Battle slid up behind the guy holding the magazine. There was half a dozen other guys leaning over his shoulder, trying to get a better look. 

The photo was of Mara’s first costume. From before she had Warren. From before they even started dating, actually. But she kept the look for a long time. It took getting pregnant and being left with stretchmarks to finally retire the costume. 

The top wasn’t all that racy. It was long sleeved and high collared. Her tits were completely covered. But it was very, very short. Not short enough to expose any under-boob, but short enough to display literally everything else below the breasts. A flat stomach and toned abs. A gold belly button ring that sparkled with a scarlet stone. Bellow her exposed belly piercing was a pair of short-shorts, or bikini-shorts, or booty shorts. Battle didn’t know what they were actually supposed to be called, he wasn’t that into fashion. The point was, they were short! Displaying supple, deliciously curved thighs and the tight, round, perfectly shaped bottoms of her butt cheeks. Shapely exposed legs ending in boots with five-inch stiletto heels. 

It was a gorgeous costume, and she looked exquisite in it. 

Her current costume was still very lovely, in Battle’s opinion. It covered everything between her throat and her toes. But it was still tight and showed off her appetizing curves. Displaying every shape and contour of her perfectly toned and sculpted body. But it hid her stretch marks, which were what she was really self-conscious about. 

“I heard she got a nasty scar.” Someone suggested his uninformed opinion.

“Nah, man, I heard she had a kid.” Volunteered someone else, just guessing but hitting closer to the mark than the first guy. “Can’t be flying around with your ass hanging out if you’re a mom.”

“Says who? Moms can be sluts!” Shouted someone from the end of the table.

Battle wrinkled his nose at that comment. 

“Please,” scoffed another, “she’s covering up now ‘cause she finally got a man. Any woman who dresses like that is just looking for a man to love her ‘cause her daddy clearly never did.” 

“What!?” Battle had had about as much of this conversation as he could take. He startled everyone at the table. No one had noticed him there. 

“C’mon, Battle.” Said the guy who made the ‘daddy’ comment. “All female supers dress kinda slutty, but you have to admit Flamebird dresses like a bitch in heat that’s just begging for a dick.”

That was his wife the guy was talking about, and Battle did not appreciate it. “Say that again.”

The other guy stood from the table. Seemingly oblivious to the danger he’d just put himself in. He locked eyes with Barron Battle. “Flamebird. Is. A. Whore.”

Battle didn’t pause. He didn’t hesitate. He slammed the lunch tray up, into the other man’s chin. Spilling his food all over the guy’s face. But more importantly, forcing his head up. Exposing his neck. Before the other guy even had the time to process Battle’s first attack, Battle rammed the narrow edge of his tray into the other man’s trachea. 

He coughed. Then tried to gasp but failed to take in a breath. Realizing very quickly that he couldn’t breathe. His throat was crushed. 

The other guys at the table all backed up. Some of them even going so far as to climb over the table in their haste to get the hell away from Barron Battle. 

Grabbing a fist full of the other man’s hair, Battle forced the poor choking bastard to meet his eyes. “That’s my wife you’re calling a whore.” 

The other man just gave another strangled, wet-sounding cough. Eyes wide with the realization of just how much he’d fucked up. It was rumored that the wife that visited Battle on visiting days was one kind of super or another. Just nobody knew which one. Everyone liked to talk shit about the superheroes. Half the guys in here were put away by heroes. It was the poor bastard’s bad luck that the one he just so happened to be insulting today was Barron Battle’s wife. 

Battle threw him on the ground. “If you can’t handle a ten, maybe you shouldn’t be looking at a ten. Stay in your league, fucker!”

He looked up at the guards that had stopped just short of pouncing on him. There were only three of them, and they were afraid of him. Battle went tow to tow with the Commander and now just nearly killed a guy with a lunch tray. This was not someone to be messed with, the fact that it was their job be damned! 

“This idiot seems to have choked on his food.” Battle informed the nervous guards. “Someone should take him to the quack doc.”

And Battle left the cafeteria without eating his lunch. 

Later, when he was relaxing in his bunk. Alone. His cellmate playing ‘least in sight’. Battle was looking over a letter from his son and finding every single spelling error to be the most adorable thing ever. Warren needed to read more. That would improve his spelling. He’d say as much in his next letter. That was when the warden sent six guards to inform him that he was being given seven days in Solitary as punishment for the assault in the cafeteria. 

That was the first time Barron Battle was sent to Solitary Confinement.

It was a ten foot by ten foot box. With one single window, high above his head and as small as a letter envelope. A toilet in one corner and a narrow cot in the opposite corner. 

He spent all of a week in that cell. But they let him out in time to catch his next visiting day. 

It was day of, and Battle was in the showers. Him and ten other guys scrubbing themselves extra well to get the grime of prison life off themselves before they saw their families. Battle’s head was under the spray, eyes closed, ears deaf to all sound but the water pounding into his hair. One hand running absent mindedly over the tattoo over his left pectoral. A tattoo right over his heart. A tattoo that simply read ‘Peace’ in stylized calligraphy. 

He felt the shiv before he knew the other guy had even come up behind him. 

Some new guy that had come in while he was still locked in Solitary. Wielding the handle of a plastic toothbrush sharpened to a point. It punctured his kidney and Battle went down. 

Blood pouring out of him, mingling with the soap and water. Bright red spiraling on the white shower tiles before it trickled down the drain. 

The guards were on them in seconds. Two wrestling the other guy to the wall, one more bending over Battle’s naked form to assess his wound. 

“I’m fine.” Battle tried to groan from his position laying prone on the wet tiles. 

And, in fact, he would be. The wound had already started to heal. The tissues and fibers of flesh and organs knitting themselves back together. That was his power. You could hurt him, but he wouldn’t stay hurt for long. Sooner or later, Barron Battle would get back up. 

They insisted on sending him to the infirmary anyway. Battle sat stubbornly silent, eyes fixed on the clock on the wall behind the prison doctor and watched the minutes tick away. After a superfluous physical, and much unnecessary exclamations of how remarkable Battle’s power was, he was finally given a clean bill of health and allowed to return to his cell block –his cell block, not the scheduled visit with his family. 

The short window of hours that were allotted for visiting day was over and he missed it. 

It was days later, but Battle caught the same guy again when they were out on the yard. He was meandering near the fence that separated the guys of Max Sec from Gen Pop. He saw Battle coming, but the space was narrow. Maximum Security wasn’t given as much freedom to roam as the prison’s General Population. Battle shoved the guy up against the chain-link fence that separated Max and Gen. 

“Hey asshole.” He growled, low and threatening from the back of his throat. A completely feral sound that did not belong coming out of a human mouth. “I didn’t get to see my son because of you.”

The guy glared back at him, like he wasn’t frightened of Barron Battle, the supervillain that even the Commander had trouble taking down. Or maybe it wasn’t so much a lack of fear. But a level of hate that overrode any fear he might have felt. 

“I never saw my father again after you killed President Harjavti!” He snarled back in heavily accented English.

“You’re from Greater Bialya.” Battle concluded. That made sense. Lots of civilians fell as casualties when Bialya invaded its neighboring country after the assassination of its president. The country was left weak and without leadership. Easy pickings for its neighbors. But then, that was the whole point, after all. That was the job Battle was hired for. Cut off the head, so his client could loot the body. 

“Qurac!” The man corrected. Shouted, actually. “We would still be Qurac if it wasn’t for you! My father would still be alive if it wasn’t for you!”

“And yet, no one can prove that I was ever even there.” Battle shrugged, unconcerned. Qurac and Bialya was business. Getting stabbed and being prevented from seeing his own family, that was personal. “Ya know what can be proven? That you stabbed me in the back like a fucking coward!”

The guy was already up against the fence, he had nowhere else to go, but Battle pressed closer. Getting tight within the other man’s personal space. One hand around his throat. Faces uncomfortably close together. Noses almost touching. Intimately close together. So close, in fact, that the other guy felt Battle’s hot breath on his face when he spoke. 

“Unlike you, I’m not a fucking coward.” 

Battle’s other hand, fingers straight, stabbed forward. Going for the other man’s side. At the seam of the prison issued jumpsuit. Nails ripping through the stitches. Bare fingers penetrating the flesh underneath. Tearing through skin and organs. His fist curled around the other man’s kidney before he wrenched his hand back out again. 

The guy collapsed at Battle’s feet. He was already in here for his next four lives. What was another couple years for an extra murder?

He stood over the other man’s dying body, holding the warm, dripping kidney in his hand. Unlike Battle, the other guy couldn’t heal instantly. 

Even the guards were a little afraid to approach him after that. Barron Battle wasn’t very intimidating right after being stabbed, when he was laying on the floor. Prone, and vulnerable, and bleeding out. But standing at his full height of six foot two, holding a bloody organ in one hand, an oddly satisfied grimace on his face… nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of that. 

It took six of them to bolster each other’s courage enough to even approach him and request he come with them to see the Warden.

The Warden looked a little sick when he heard the guards’ report. He didn’t believe it at first. Battle sat in one of the chairs in front of the Warden’s desk –arguably the most comfortable thing he’d sat in in two months- and waited while the other man reviewed the security footage. He saw it on the Warden’s face the moment he saw Battle’s hand go into the other guy and come out with a fistful of innards. The Warden went ghastly pale, and called for two more guards to assist the existing six to escort Battle back to Solitary.

They said he would be in there another seven days. 

But seven turned out to be fourteen.

Half a month.

Battle missed the next visiting day. Again, he didn’t get to see his wife or son. 

He flew into a rage when he learned that they intentionally kept him from his family. 

His cellmate pressed himself up against the corner walls, shivering with terror, but also afraid to cry out for fear of drawing Barron Battle’s attention to him. Battle up-turned their shared bunk bed. He wasn’t as super-strong as the Commander, but he was stronger than a normal human of his height and build should be. The bed had been bolted to the floor, but it only took Battle his third try to wrench it off its bolts. 

But it wasn’t a blind rage. There was a method to his destruction. 

Battle jammed the legs of the bunk between the bars of the cell door, using the steel frame as a lever, and applying leverage. There was the sound of strained metal, almost drowned out by the shouts of other guys in other cells. Some cheering for him, other shouting for the guards in terror. Nobody wanted to be stuck in a cage when Barron Battle was feeling murderous. 

Finally, there was a loud wrenching sound, followed by a metallic pop, and the cell door swung open lamely, its lock broken. 

He marched out of his cell, ignoring his terrified cellmate whom had pissed in the corner in his terror. Ignoring the other guys in his cellblock shouting for him to ‘yeah, sock it to ‘em, Battle!’ 

There was another steel-barred gate locking him in the cell block. But that one was dealt with much easier. One of the young, new, and over-confident guards who rushed him to try and prevent his ‘escape’ had a key-card on his belt. 

Suddenly, getting through the prison was much, much easier. 

Other guards tried to stop him, but the vast majority of them were all normal humans. Not supers. No powers. They didn’t stand a chance. The smart ones just gave up and let him pass, thinking they would claim they were overpowered later. The dumb ones got maimed, permanently injured, or killed. 

Finally, Battle made it to the Warden’s office. 

With one solid kick, Battle broke down the door to the office and stormed in. 

“You kept me from my family!” He accused. 

With a yelp, the Warden jumped out of his chair. But Battle moved faster than he did, jumping over the chairs, climbing onto the desk. Battle grabbed the first thing his hand touched as a weapon. A fountain pen from the desk. 

Makeshift weapon in hand, Battle rushed the Warden. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

He got close enough to slash downwards on the man’s face. The sharp point of the fountain pen leaving a trail and ink and blood through the man’s eye. 

That was the only attack he was able to connect with his prey before three guards, fresh and uninjured from another cell-block made it to the office. Standing in the doorway, all three of them pulled out their tazer guns and shot him in the back. Three tazers, all turned up to their maximum voltage. They held the triggers down. Unloading the full batteries on him. When all three tazers were finally empty, the back of Battle’s jumpsuit was burned in three places and smoking. 

But the supervillain was unconscious. 

When he woke up again, he was back in his cell in Solitary. 

And this time, they would never let him out again. 

He roared for days. Screaming wordless, guttural sounds well into all hours of the night and morning. He slammed his body against the solid concrete of the walls. Tried climbing up to punch his fist through the envelope sized window high above his head. Snarled, and spat, and hissed, and growled. Like a caged animal. 

The other inmates in Solitary who could hear him through the ventilation grates that connected the cells were terrified. They begged to be let out and returned to their regular bunks. They would behave. They promised. Just don’t leave them down here with that… with that beast! 

The guards who brought him his meals were similarly terrified. After Battle tried to grab the first guy through the floor-level slit in the door they slid the tray under, everyone refused to go near him. He wasn’t a man. He was fear and terror personified. Danger, and rage, and hate wrapped up in human skin. 

No one wanted to get near that. 

Battle went three days without food while the acting-Warden (the real Warden having taken a leave of absence to heal his eye) searched for any supers that might be willing to help guard him. 

On the morning of the third day, Battle’s rage began to subside. The hunger doing more to calm him than the time itself. While starving him out wasn’t the intension, it did work wonders as far as quieting him down went. Around lunchtime, a blue-gloved hand slid open the slit in the door, and a tray of toasted bread and broth was slid in for him. After being starved for three days, they wanted to take it easy on his stomach and not shock his systems. Goodness knew they did not need Barron Battle flying into another rage because the food they gave him caused a tommy ache. 

Battle glared suspiciously at the food. As if expecting it to suddenly confess to being poisoned. 

“When you’re done, I’m to escort you to the showers.” Said a voice Battle did not recognize. 

Battle glanced down at himself, as if becoming aware of his own body for the first time in days. The jumpsuit was dirty and torn. Scrapped on both shoulders, the threads wearing thin. Seems split on the arms and around the torso where his thrashing had pulled the fabric in ways it was not meant to move. He wasn’t ‘wearing’ the standard issue jumpsuit so much as it was ‘hanging off’ him. 

Looking back up at the solid steel door of his cell, Battle banged on it three times, ignoring the food. “I’m ready now.”

There was a pause on the other side. As if the person beyond the door was considering him. Then there was the sound of a key-card being swiped, locks unclicking, and the steel slab that was his cell door slid open. 

Waiting outside was not a host of prison guards, but rather, just one man. With sandy blond hair. A blue mask with wide eye-sockets almost like swimming goggles covering his face. The suit was short-sleeved, but long legged and looked more like a wetsuit than any super-suit Battle had ever seen. He looked like he was ready for a day of surfing in the sun, not babysitting a Max Sec prisoner. Hell! He was even bare-foot and smelled of sunscreen!

“Who the hell are you supposed to be, rent-a-cape?” It was phrased like a question, but delivered as a scoff. Barron Battle was not impressed. 

“Hydro.” Supplied the super. “I’m your new guard.” 

Battle scoffed again. This one wordless. 

“To the showers?” Hydro took a step back to give Battle enough space to exit the cell. 

The showers were empty when the pair entered, and Hydro locked the door behind them, leaning his back against it to ensure that no one would be coming in to stab Barron Battle in the back again. But also to ensure that Barron Battle wouldn’t be making a break for it to try and murder the acting-Warden or escape to get back to his family. 

For a third time, Battle scoffed. As if the guy could take him. Ha! With a name like ‘Hydro’ he assumed the man’s powers were water based. So, he would have an advantage here in the showers. But Battle would ultimately win. He was basically unkillable. If it really came down to a fight, no water wizard could beat him. 

But he really did need a shower. His own body odor was getting to him now. He slid off the ripped and fraying prison jumpsuit and stepped under the spray. 

“No scars.” Hydro noted. 

Battled glanced back at the other man, glaring a challenge at him. “You checkin’ me out, water boy?”

“No. I- I like women, I just meant.” He was nervous. That meant he was weak. “After what they say the Commander had to do to subdue you… I thought you’d have scars.”

Turning his back on the man again, Battle put his head under the spray. “Heal too fast for scars.”

“Do you feel pain?” Hydro asked. 

“Why? Ya wanna fight?” Battle didn’t bother turning around as he lathered himself up with the bar of soap. Nobody wanted to fight him. He was an agent of death wrapped in immortal flesh. 

“Not yet. Not if I don’t have to.” The other man shrugged. Barron Battle’s guard seemed so nonchalant. 

“Good.” Battle nodded into the stream. “Then just stand back there and leave me alone.”

If he turned the heat up all the way and turned the cold off, he could pretend that the scalding water running down his back was Mara’s hands caressing him. He could imagine himself home, in his own shower. Warm and comfortable. His son dutifully pretending to put his toys away before Barron came in to read him his bedtime story. Mara warming their bed so the sheets weren’t cold when he joined her in it. 

Battle stayed with his head under the water, one hand running circles around the ‘Peace’ tattoo over his heart, until the heat began to run out and the water turned cold, chasing the fantasy away. 

His sentence wasn’t just for his whole life, but for four consecutive lives. This one, and the next three to come. Battle would never see his wife or son again. 

Head still under the stream, water turned cold, Battle let out a sob and punched the closest thing to him. The porcelain tiles of the wall shattered under his fist, exposing the concrete underneath. The ceramic pieces clattering to the floor with an oddly delicate tinkling sound. 

The water of the shower stopped falling. Taking on a life of its own, the stream formed tendrils of fluid and wrapped themselves around him. Twisting his arms behind his back, binding his shoulders, wrapping around his legs so that he couldn’t kick. Lifting him up off the tile floor to heel him from falling over unbalanced. 

Battled opened his eyes to see Hydro, still standing by the door, but one arm outstretched. Using his power to command the water to restrain and hold Battle in place. 

“Cute trick.” Battle commented. 

“I think it’s time I took you back to your cell.” Hydro informed him. 

Battle looked down at himself. “Naked?”

“That depends on you. Can you stay calm and cooperative enough to get dressed?”

“I’m not gonna be trying any escape attempts stark naked, dumbass.” Battle informed him. 

And so that was how it was. 

Battle never returned to Max Sec. Solitary was his cellblock now. His whole world was cut down and narrowed into one ten-foot by ten-foot box. He slept in the narrow cot in one corner. Pissed and shit in the toilet in the opposite corner. All meals were slid to him from under the door by Hydro’s blue-gloved hand. He never returned to the cafeteria. The florescent light in his ceiling was turned off at 9pm every night, and turned back on at 6am every morning. His only natural light was what little sun came in through the tiny envelop sized window high above his head. 

The only time he ever left his cell was once a week when Hydro escorted him to the showers. 

All his visitation days were gone. After the incident with the pen in the Warden’s office, we wasn’t even allowed pencils and so the ability to write letters to Mara and Warren was similarly taken away from him. 

They still sent him letters, though. 

Once a week, a letter was slid under the door with his breakfast. 

Mara wrote fairly regularly. At least once a week, letters mailed on a Monday, almost always arriving on a Tuesday. Sometimes she sent photos of Warren with the letters. Candid shots of him discovering some new trick with his fire. Posed ones where he stood stiff, smiling awkwardly at the camera in that way that children did. ‘Say cheese!’ School photos from picture day, wearing his best shirt with dark hair combed out of his face. Those two red streaks getting more and more prominent as he got older. The dates on the letters and the photos of Warren growing up were really the only way to mark the passage of time in his tiny, ten foot world. 

Sometimes the photos Mara sent were not of Warren. Sometimes they were of her. Alone. And definitely not the wholesome kind meant for a family album. Naughty little pictures of her wearing a string of pearls he brought back from Dubai, or opal earrings from Australia, her belly ring, a smile, and nothing else. Mara looked lovely wearing nothing but a smile. And she had such a beautiful smile. 

Full pert lips painted a provocative shade of red. Mouth parted slightly, just enough of a gap to make a man imagine what was behind those lips, how it would feel beyond those lips, in her mouth… Mara had a lovely mouth… Eyeliner making her hazel eyes look bigger, brighter. Eyeshadow giving her that smoky look… 

Letters that included photos like that almost made him appreciate the privacy Solitary gave him. 

Warren’s letters were less frequent and less regular, and they rarely included extra gifts. Warren wrote about his days. What school he was going to. How he would be graduating elementary and going to middle school soon. ‘Will you be coming home soon, Dad? I wanna see you before I start middle school.’ Warren still believed he was on a long contract and would be coming home eventually, for far longer than Battle felt the boy should have. His son was no fool. You and inexperienced, yes. Obviously. But not dumb. He should have realized by this point that his father wasn’t coming home.

But the tones of his letters never alluded to any sort of awakening to reality. He wrote about his new middle school. What clubs he was joining. How terrible Mara’s cooking was. That he was trying to figure out how to cook like Barron did. ‘You always made the best meals, Dad! Everything Mom makes gets burnt.’ Little details like that brought a smile to Battle’s face. He might be stuck down in this oubliette, but outside. In the world. For his wife and son, life was normal.

About two years after he was confined to Solitary, the return address on the letters changed. They weren’t living in his condo in downtown Maxville anymore. The address still read ‘Maxville’, but Battle didn’t recognize the zip code. There was no explanation for it in Mara’s letters, though. Did she deem the change not important enough to mention, or did she not want to worry him and was hoping he didn’t look at the return addresses and wouldn’t notice? 

Since Battle wasn’t allowed to write back to her, there was no way to know. 

To occupy his time, Battle worked out. 

There wasn’t much he could do in his tiny little cell. But he was an adaptable guy. Legs up on the bed, hands on the floor, he could do pushups. Back flat against the wall, he could stretch his legs out in front of him and do toe touches. When he got ambitious, he would do an awkward little climb up the corner of the wall, above his toilet. Brace one leg against one wall, hook a hand on the narrow sill of his window, and suspend himself at just enough of an angle to actually see out the tiny window. It looked out over the yard. The majority of his view was blocked by the fence that separated Max Sec from Gen Pop, but he could see enough to see the other guys meandering about, freer than he was. It was the closest thing to ‘outside time’ Battle ever got. That, and his weekly walk to the showers. 

“’Peace’ is an interesting tattoo for a supervillain to have.” Hydro commented once. 

Battle did not appreciate his unsolicited remarks. The super was supposed to be his guard, not his friend, and Battle was getting sick of his semi-constant attempts to form a friendship. The prisoner was the one who was supposed to be susceptible to Stockholm syndrome, not the guard. 

“It’s my wife’s name.” Battle supplied, voice a low growl. He hoped Hydro would take it for the warning it was and let the subject drop. 

He did not. 

“Huh.” He commented in the same way one would ask ‘really?’. “For some reason, I never imagined you as the marriage kinda guy. I mean, you’re basically an avatar of evil. It’s hard to imagine someone falling in love with pure evil.”

Battle wrinkled his nose in distaste at the choice of phrasing. “’Evil’ is a philosophical concept. There’s no such thing as ‘pure evil’ in real life.”

Hydro ignored this comment. Instead, he pressed on with the subject Battle preferred not to discuss with a man he didn’t know, never mind trust. “I dated a girl named Peace, once. Back in high school.”

Peace was not a common name. Not even here in Maxville, the motherland of odd and uncommon surnames. Battle’s eyes narrowed at the other man. Taking a more critical look at his sandy blond hair, and wetsuit style supersuit. Bare footed and always smelling of sunscreen. A hydrokinetic, a water user who dated a girl named Peace in high school. 

“Cody Wavecrest.” He concluded. 

Mara’s first real boyfriend. She broke up with him because he talked too much. That was his general character flaw. (Now Battle shared her frustration.) And he wouldn’t shut up about how great sex was after they exchanged virginities. It being his first time as much as hers, it was over fast and he left Mara unsatisfied and slightly bleeding. Then went on to talk for over an hour about how great it was. Fuck! Battle would have broken up with him too.

“She told you about me?” 

“Mara and I have no secrets from each other.” Battle informed the other man tersely. 

“Really?” Hydro did not sound convinced. “You told Mara everything? Everything you did? And she still stayed with you?”

Battle couldn’t help the smirk that pulled at his lips. He had also been skeptical of Mara’s feelings (or her sanity) at first. But she just had a unique way of looking at things. 

“Actually, I told her what I do the morning after our first date, and then didn’t see her again for almost six months.” 

This was actually his favorite story and Battle lamented that he’d never get the chance to tell it to Warren when he was old enough to understand geopolitics. 

“You remember when the General of Parazuela was assassinated? That was me. I paid good for that job, too. But then, with the General out of the way, it created a power-vacuum that his whole cabinet rushed to fill. With the government in an unstable transition, the military weakened and the people were able to take their country back. For the first time in forty years, they were able to hold democratic elections to choose their own leaders. That never would have happened if I hadn’t murdered their General.” Battle smiled at the memory. “A couple nights after that, Mara came floating up to my balcony and informed me that ‘moral’ and ‘good’ could be mutually exclusive and she’d like to give me a second date.”

“That’s bullshit.” Hydro shook his head. 

“That’s Mara.” Battle shrugged, one hand resting over the Peace tattoo over his heart. He missed her. 

“You’re lying.” Hydro continued to insist. “You had to have been lying to her the whole time.”

Battle turned around in the shower to glare at his guard. “Did you take this job because you knew I’m Mara’s husband?”

Hydro glared back at him from his position guarding the door. “I refused to believe Mara Peace actually fell in love with a monster like you.” He growled. “You must have been manipulating her somehow. Or guilted her into staying with you after you put your bastard in her!” 

Battle already did not like Hydro, and he had already not been liking this conversation. But at the allusion to Warren he changed from annoyed and frustrated to protective and hostile. “You leave my son out of this! He’s just a child!”

“He’s the chain you used to leash Mara to you!” Hydro argued back. 

Stepping out of the shower, ignoring the clean jumpsuit folded by the sink, Battle stalked towards Hydro. “Are you threatening my son?”

“I’m a hero. I would never threaten a child.” Hydro assured him. “That doesn’t mean I won’t be ready when he inevitably goes evil and has to be taken down.”

Battle grabbed a fist full of the other man’s wetsuit. “You stay the fuck away from my son!”

He didn’t wait for a witty come-back from the water wielder. Battle was a man of action, and as far as he was concerned, this asshole had just threatened his only child. With his other hand, Battle grabbed Hydro’s mop of sandy blond hair and slammed his head back against the door he was guarding. There was an uncomfortable sounding crack, and the blue spandex clad hero staggered in place. 

That should have been the end of it. A blow to the head like that would render an average human unconscious. But supers had the annoying tendency to be more resistant to damage than the average human. 

Something hit Battle from behind, and he turned to see the water of the shower had risen from the tiles and formed itself into several serpent-like tendrils. They whipped at the supervillain’s still naked form until he stepped away from Hydro, still leaning dizzily against the door. 

One wrapped itself around Battle’s arm, trying to restrain him. But it was just water, and he pulled out of its grip. 

“I don’t know what Mara sees in you.” Hydro growled. 

More tendrils of water were pulling at Battle now. He had to do some quick stepping to keep pulling out of them. Water was soft. But it was also persistent. 

“Well, I don’t know what Mara saw in you.” Battle informed him.

Other shower faucets turned themselves on, adding more water to the their arena. Hydro changed his constructs from tentacles to one large wave. A wall of water bearing down on Battle. It washed around his body and over his head –then stayed there. Keeping Battle completely submerged. Cutting him off from his supply of oxygen. Any wound might heal instantly, but even he needed to breath!

Eyes blinking through the blur of thick fluid, Battle’s mind raced for a way to break free and get back to air. 

The lack of oxygen was making it hard to think, and his vision was starting to darken in the corners. But he put all his strength into one mad ditch attack. Bending his knees and pushing off the tiled floor, Battle propelled himself through the water like an Olympic swimmer kicking off a pool wall. He collided with Hydro and the two men went down in a heap of wet limbs. 

There was the disturbingly loud snap and crack of a bone breaking and blood colored the water surrounding them. Hydro’s constructs lost all form and crashed down to the floor with a splash, trickling down the drain as if they were never there. The hydrokinetic had lost all focus and concentration. 

Battle picked himself up and looked down at his guard. 

Hydro’s knee was bent at a wrong angle and the bone was sticking out through the skin and wetsuit. It might heal, if he got to a real doctor, not the shitty prison doc, in time. But the man would never walk right again. 

The threat neutralized, Battle grabbed his clean jumpsuit and slipped it on. Pressing a panic button on the wall to summon more guards, he exited the shower before they arrived and went back to his cell. There was a letter from Warren he received that morning and hadn’t read yet. He wanted to relax with the knowledge that his son was safe. 

It took them another three days to find a different super to replace Hydro as his guard.

When Warren got to high school, there was a decisive change in the tone of his letters. 

The letter he received right before Warren’s freshman year was so optimistic and excited. He was going to learn to be a superhero! What could be better?

Warren did not write again for a very long time. 

But Mara still wrote every week. She never said it outright. But Battle could read between the lines. What she didn’t say was just as telling as what she did. The moment Warren set foot on Sky High campus every single member of the faculty and staff would know who he was. Who’s son he was. Not Flamebird’s son. Barron Battle’s son. 

Battle didn’t know what Mara told the boy –or didn’t tell the boy, as the case may be. But it wouldn’t take him long to learn that his father was a criminal. Battle imagined the revelation taking less than the first day of school. 

It was no wonder Warren stopped writing to him. 

In fact, Battle did not receive another letter from his son until a year later. 

It was short. Scrawled on notebook paper, as if he wrote it in the middle of class, informing Battle that the Commander’s son had come to school. Young Stronghold (Warren only ever called him ‘Stronghold’ in the letter, so Battle had no idea what the boy’s actual name was. Probably some pretentious frat-boy name like Bret, or Chad, or Chet… Steve Jr.?) was a year below Warren in school, a freshmen while he was a Sophomore –and they fought in the lunch room. 

Battle didn’t know if he should be proud of his son for trying to defend the family honor, or disappointed in the boy for fighting for a lost cause. Either way, it was sweet. Battle wished he had the ability to write back. 

Warren’s Sophomore year the letters were short, never longer than a single page, but multiple and plentiful. Coming almost as often as letters from Mara. Trips to the principal’s office. Detention. Forced to work with young Stronghold during ‘Save the Citizen’. (Apparently, they didn’t use real citizens anymore, go figure.) Always, he wrote about young Stronghold. It was a rivalry on the verge of becoming a feud. 

Then the tone of the letters abruptly changed again. 

Warren met a girl.

It was the longest letter Battle had received from his son in the past year. Warren wrote about how he found her at his work –his boy had a job, Battle was so proud!- she was sitting at a table alone looking sad and abandoned. Apparently, the way Warren told it, the girl had a date with young Stronghold, but the boy stood her up. Battle snorted at that. No respect. Just like Steve. Warren sat with her and listened to her tales of woe, then gave her a pep-talk to lift her spirits and motivate her to go out and get what she wanted –even if what she wanted was young Stronghold (there was no accounting for taste). 

The rest of the letter was going on to describe the girl in nauseating detail. How she was so cheerful and creative. Bright and friendly. Never had a negative thing to say about anyone. Was optimistic and always saw the best in everything. And how young Stronghold didn’t deserve her. How young Stronghold didn’t appreciate her, and how she deserved a man who would appreciate her. 

It was glaringly obvious that Warren was smitten with the girl –whom had remained unnamed though out the whole thing. 

No sooner had Battle finished reading that letter then he got another one no more than two days later. Apparently, the girl had gotten it into her head to try and make young Stronghold jealous by pretending to date his rival –Warren- and, like a hopeless fool, the boy had agreed to go along with it. 

Battle sighed. He knew how these fake dating stories always ended. 

The next few letters went exactly how Battle expected them to. Obnoxious shows of affection in public areas of the school. Silent glares. Tensions. Burgeoning feelings. Yup. All the hallmarks of a fake dating story. Battle couldn’t help but laugh. 

Then he got the letter telling him about the long awaited prom and Battle was disappointed beyond words. 

It was only one paragraph long. Apparently, lots of drama went down at the dance. Layla –presumably the girl’s name- got with Stronghold like she wanted, and Warren left the dance with some girl from his mad science class. Everybody was happy. 

Battle didn’t believe that for a second. In one of his previous letters, Warren spent almost an entire page describing how the girl’s hair fell in front of one ear when she tilted her head. That was not a level of attention paid to someone that was just an associate helping you work a con. That was a level of hyper-fixation that could only be described as ‘infatuation’. Warren really liked this girl –Layla. 

Warren wanted this girl. 

But then he goes and starts dating some ice user from his own class. A girl that Warren had never even mentioned before in his letters. Like she just came out of nowhere. 

That was not how fake dating stories were supposed to go! The fact that Stronghold got Warren’s girl aside, that was not a satisfying ending! 

It was months before Warren’s next letter after that. Almost into the summer. His cell was warmer. The guys he could see from his tiny window wore their jumpsuits unzipped to the waist. The grass was starting to wilt and turn brown.

Finally, Battle got a new letter from his son. 

This one, the size of a novel. 

It recapped everything Battle already knew about Stronghold, and Layla. But with added information that was omitted before. A plot by one of the Commander’s old enemies back for revenge. Apparently, Sue was still alive. Good for her! Sucks that she set herself against Barron Battle’s son, but then just because you were a genius didn’t mean you were smart. How Warren teamed up with Layla’s friends –all in the Sidekick track- and Stronghold –also on the sidekick track, ha! take that, Steve!- to save the day. And how reluctant he was to send this letter because he was afraid of telling his father that he and young Stronghold were now… friends. 

Battle sat up on his cot when he read that. His eyes fixed on that one word, thinking he must have read it wrong. 

Friends. 

His son and Steve’s son were friends. 

Best friends. 

How fucking dare they!?

Battle reread the letter several times. He held it in his hands and paced his cell, thinking. Seething, really. 

He thought about it while doing his pushups. He thought about it while climbing the corner to get at the window. He thought about it while doing his tow touches. He thought about it in the shower as he was watched by his new super guard. He thought about it while he ate. And before he fell asleep at night. 

Imagining his son hanging out with the Commander’s son. Sharing jokes. Laughing together. High fiving. Acting as wingman for each other with girls. 

Wait.

Wasn’t the girl Warren was in love with young Stronghold’s girlfriend now? 

How the hell were they friends!?

Battle pondered that question too. 

After that novel length tale of fake dates, revelations, revenge, and friendship, Warren’s letters became less frequent again. Less frequent, but still regular and consistent. He was back to writing about daily things. Classes. Teachers. Friends. Young Stronghold. Layla. Apparently, the two dated for a grand total of only three months before both teenagers realized that their relationship was closer to that of siblings, than romantic partners. They agreed that anything more than holding hands just felt wrong and the relationship should be dissolved. Their breakup was clean and civil, and everyone remained friends. 

That was good news for Warren. 

Except none of his letters ever mentioned him going for it with Layla, and that was frustrating. Ever since the fake dating shenanigans, Battle was kinda rooting for them to get together. 

Before Battle realized it, Warren was in his senior year and working on an internship with an established hero. 

He was having troubles. His mentor didn’t like him personally. Didn’t trust him on missions. Warren didn’t say it outright. But Battle was good at reading between lines. His son didn’t have to write the words. His mentor did not want to pass Warren because of him. Warren’s mentor did not want the son of a supervillain working as a hero. 

Battle got a year’s worth of letters complaining about Warren’s mentor. Explaining that they were matched as mentor and mentee because they had complementary elemental powers. But, as Warren learned when he helped the sidekicks at prom years ago, a super’s powers weren’t as important as how they could work with the other members of their team, and Warren could not work with his mentor. 

The whole situation looked bleak. 

They weren’t going to let Warren be a hero. The children of supervillains were not allowed the privilege.

It was a miracle when Warren’s latest letter informed him that they were giving him a second chance. That they were going to match him with a different mentor and he would be taking his internship at the same time as young Stronghold and Layla. –And Warren seemed genuinely excited about that (at least, by the tone of his letter). He would be nineteen, the oldest one doing an internship, but he would still have a chance. 

His son was nineteen. Wow. 

Battle flopped backwards on his cot. 

He'd been locked in here for ten years.


	4. Cognitive Dissonance

Warren found his mother in the backyard when he came home. 

He was mentally and emotionally exhausted from his first day working with the Commander as his mentor. Will’s dad –so far- was a hell of a lot nicer than Hydro ever was. But Warren still couldn’t help being suspicious. After all, he was also the man who took his father away from him in the first place. Endearing platitudes and heartfelt speeches aside, at the end of the day, Warren’s family was still broken, and it was broken by the Commander. 

He pulled up a second wrought iron patio chair and sat next to his mother. Taking his mask off with a sigh as he sat down. 

“You shouldn’t wear your costume if you’re just lounging in the yard.” Mara informed him distractedly. “The neighbors might see.”

She was wearing her pajamas for lounging around. Men’s boxer shorts and a spaghetti strap top that was uncomfortably low cut and displayed the tattoo over her left breast. A tattoo right over her heart. A tattoo that was nothing but the word ‘Battle’ in stylized calligraphy. 

Mara had a stack of documents on her lap, junk mail and old bank statements. She was taking them, one sheet at a time, and reducing the documents to ash. The dust falling from her hand to collect in a metal bucket next to her chair. Their cat, Soot, lounged curled up under the chair on the opposite side. The cat looked up when Warren sat down, then promptly went back to ignoring him. 

Warren looked at her sideways. “But you’re not concerned about them seeing you use your powers instead of shredding documents like a normal person.”

“They won’t realize what I’m doing.” Mara scoffed. 

And, in fact, that was probably true. There was no visible flame to what his mother was doing. Yes, she was technically burning the papers. But using only the sheer heat of her power. Mara was not manifesting any live flame. There was no red or orange glow. No flicker of light. No real fire. Warren hadn’t seen his mother manifest real fire in a very, very long time. Not since they stopped being allowed to visit his father. 

She still had her powers. The burn was still there. 

But where once there had been a roaring hearth, full of light, and heat, and comfort, and joy, there was now a low and dark smolder. The kind of fire that still burned, but under the coals, where it couldn’t be seen, only felt. A more dangerous fire for its lack of visual cues. Embers hidden in plain sight, waiting to brand the unsuspecting passerby. 

Clearing his throat, Warren decided to change the subject. 

“So, you’re Layla’s mentor.” He stated awkwardly. 

He never knew how to talk about Layla with his mother. Mara had an opinion about the younger woman. An opinion based on Layla’s taste in boyfriends when Warren first met her, and how she used Warren in a fake dating ploy to make said bad-taste-boyfriend jealous. In all honesty, Warren was expecting his mother’s mentorship of Layla to go about as badly as his own menteeship with Hydro, and that bothered him. Warren wanted Layla to succeed and thrive. She was too kind and caring, empathetic and patient, gentle and understanding, bold and daring, to be held back by a mentor who didn’t like her on a personal level. Layla deserved the best, and Warren wanted her to get the best. 

He also wanted Layla and his mother to be friends, but that was highly unlikely. 

“How’d that go?” He was a little afraid to ask, but he did anyway. He had to know.

Mara didn’t answer immediately. She picked up another document, an invitation to apply for a credit card she didn’t need, and reduced the paper to ash. The heat coming off her hand in waves. 

“She’s very naive.” His mother finally said at length. “But that’s a self-correcting problem. It’ll fix itself with time.” Another pause. “She thinks I’m ‘nice and stuff’.”

Warren could only snort at that. “Well, damn, Mom! She doesn’t know you at all!”

“I can be very nice when I want to be.” Mara informed her son tersely. Then thought about it and decided to rephrase her statement. “I can put up a good show of being nice, when I want to.”

Goodness knew she’d been putting on a show of being ‘nice’ for a decade now. By this point she had practically perfected the technique. Mara lifted another document from her stack of papers. A letter asking for donations for some charitable crusade or something. There was once a time in her life when Mara Peace had a bleeding heart. When she cared about people, and things, and causes. When she truly was nice, not just pretending. But now… it was hard to bring herself to care about other people when she was already dead inside. She didn’t have a heart. They took her heart away from her and locked it in a cage. She felt nothing, and cared about nothing. 

Well, that wasn’t true. She cared about her son. 

Lifting her chin, Mara indicated for her son to look at the hill that loomed over their block of Maxville Adjacent. “Looks better up there, right.”

Warren followed his mother’s gaze and realized that the hill that had previously been charred and blacked from the end of summer fires was suddenly lush and green. “You got Layla to do that for you.”

“For us.” Mara corrected. “You live here too. I’m only three more years away from getting this crappy place paid off. I’m not gonna let it get buried under half the North Hills just because the Maxville city council doesn’t care about Maxville Adjacent. I’m just making sure the Home Ground is protected.” 

“So, you’re just using Layla.” His disapproval was clear and apparent in his voice. 

Warren liked Layla. Probably liked her more than he liked Will –his best friend. She was the first in their group to choose not to be afraid of him. She didn’t care who his father was. She ignored the walls and layers of hostility he threw up to keep people away, grabbed his hand and made him feel something other than rage. If it weren’t for her, he would still be a friendless outcast. The only child of an infamous supervillain, and heir to a legacy of violence and hate. 

Layla chased away all his insecurities and fears and made him feel… happy. Accepted. Like he was a part of something. Like he belonged. 

He did not like the idea of someone just using Layla, and he doubly didn’t like the idea that it was his own mother using her. 

“She’s sweet.” His mother informed him. “People who are sweet are easily manipulated.” 

“I would prefer it if you didn’t use her.” Warren insisted, more firmly than he intended for it to come out. 

“She seemed happy enough.” Mara shot back. “Tomorrow I was thinking I’d take her through the neighborhood. Get her to fix all the sidewalks that have been ripped up by the trees, or help out Mrs. Rivera and Mrs. Lin-Shan with their community garden. Ya know, friendly neighborhood hero stuff.” 

Begrudgingly, Warren had to admit that Layla would actually like that. And it would be helping out those that were often overlooked. So, it wasn’t like it wasn’t good. It wasn’t really ‘superhero work’, but it was good works. It was only the motives that were bad. It was ‘good’, just not ‘moral’. The two could be mutually exclusive. 

But was that important? Did the motives matter if good was achieved? Because it was Layla, Warren felt the motives were equally important. She was so pure. Kind and caring. Down to her core. There wasn’t a malicious, or resentful bone in her body. She deserved a mentor that would be honest and truthful with her. ‘Sorry, Layla, I’m broken inside. But here are some good works we can do together, and I’ll still be broken, but you can get some non-violent heroing experience.’

“I want you to be nice to Layla.” Warren informed his mother. 

“She also seems to think about you a lot.” Mara announced, seemingly ignoring her son’s request. But also derailing his train of thought. 

Warren turned his head to stare at his mother. He didn’t think Layla would think about him any more than she thought about any of their other friends. 

What did she think about him? 

“She’s got you almost all figured out. Mr. Grr-arg-rawr.” Mara gave a little clip of a guffaw, the closest thing to a real laugh she was capable of these days. Her fake laugh was pretty convincing. A light, clear sound of amusement, accompanied by a smile that she forced to go all the way up to her eyes. It was convincing but not her real laugh. “She compared you to a dragon.”

Warren snorted. That, he found amusing. And it was just fanciful enough to be classic-Layla. 

“Maybe that can be your name if they ever let you be a hero.” His mother suggested. 

“When they let me be a hero.” Warren corrected. “And our family seems to be keeping sort of an aviary tradition, Flamebird. And Obie and Grandpa were Dove and Burnhawk. I’ll probably go with something like Darkwing.”

“The terror that flaps in the night!” Mara snorted and reduced another document to ash. 

“That makes me sound like a villain!” Her son shook his head. He was very sensitive about the possibility of being mistaken for a villain. 

“If you were really that worried about being mistaken for a villain, you shouldn’t wear so much black.” His mother informed him. 

She should know. Between the two of them, she was the more likely to actually switch sides and become a villain. But, to spite having loved a supervillain, having a child with a supervillain, and that lover and father of her child taken away from her, no one ever suspected Mara Peace of harboring vindictive thoughts. 

When she was out of the house, away from the privacy of her own home, in costume as Flamebird… Mara Peace was all bright colors and smiles. Yellows and oranges. Not a stitch of back on her costume. She never frowned. Was always polite and friendly. Had patience for the most frustrating of people –and superheroes had to deal with a lot of frustrating people on a daily basis. Made herself approachable and likeable. 

No one would ever guess that Mara Peace was really a slow-burning pit of seething resentment and hate. 

But Warren pushed that thought from his mind. His mother wasn’t about to turn turncoat and try to kill his best friend’s dad or destroy the school. He turned his attention to his own costume, running a black gloved hand, over the black-kevlar plates, on top of his black spandex chest. “Black is practical.” He said. “It doesn’t show dirt or blood as much. It’s easier to keep clean than yellow or orange.”

Reducing another paper to ash, Mara smiled. “Your father told you that.”

“He did?” Warren blinked. 

He was nine when his father was taken from him. Certainly, old enough to form clear and distinct memories of the man. But, it had still been ten years since then. A full decade. Just over half his life thus far. It was also sometimes hard to imagine a time before his father was just an obscure concept he occasionally wrote letters to when he was feeling lonely or confused. 

“Mm.” His mother nodded. 

…

 _Warren was chasing the cat. Not Soot, a different cat. An orange tabby named Ember. Ember darted under the coffee table, so Warren darted under the coffee table, banging it with his head and shaking the objects on its surface._

_“You okay there, Little Soldier?” His dad asked from where he was seated on the couch._

_“’M fine.” The boy promised._

_The cat ran out from under the table and jumped on the couch, so Warren wriggled out from under the table and jumped up on the couch, scattering a few throw pillows, and causing the furniture to bounce slightly as he did so._

_“Hey!” His dad snapped, causing Warren to pause. Dad did not raise his voice very often. So, when he did, Warren listened. “Do you see what’s I’m doing here?”_

_Warren sat down on the cushions, feet folded under him and looked at his father._

_Barren had what looked like the black leather top of his work costume on his lap. A needle in one hand, mending a narrow hole that might have been a stab wound, with heavy black thread._

_“Sewing?” The boy ventured, not quite sure what other answer his father might be looking for._

_“That’s right.” Barron nodded. He shifted the leather in his hands so that Warren could get a clearer look at the needle. Sharp and thick with a slightly wider razor tip to get through the heavy leather. “And this is very sharp. It could put your eye out. I don’t want you jumping and crashing around when I’m working with weapons, okay.”_

_“It’s not a weapon. It’s a sewing needle.” Warren pouted._

Barron smiled at his son. “One day, when you’re older, I’ll show you how to use a sewing needle as a weapon.” He promised. “But for now, no running around when someone’s got sharp objects out. Okay?” A pause. “And take your shoes off if you’re gonna be jumping on the couch. Your mother’ll be mad if she finds dirt prints on the cushions when she gets home.”

_“’Kay.” The boy shifted his position to peel off his sneakers. He scooted closer to his father, but not so close that his dad might reprimand him for being unsafe around ‘weapons’ again. “Is that what you wear when you work?”_

_“Yup.” Nodded the older man. He tied off the seam he was mending and held the garment up for the boy to see. Black boiled leather, polished to a satiny shine, sleeveless, with buckles on the shoulders and sides, and embossed with crossed swords over a round shield. Barron Battle didn’t have a super-name, but the swords crossed over the shield was his emblem._

_“It’s so dark!” Warren complained. “Mom’s is bright.”_

_“Its practical.” Dad insisted. “My work is a bit messier than your mom’s work. Black doesn’t show the dirt or blood as much.”_

_“Blood?” Warren asked, looking up into his father’s eyes._

_Dad’s warm brown eyes tightened, unsure of what was an appropriate reply to that question. Warren was still very young, and sheltered to a degree that Barron could have never imagined having in his own childhood. He cleared his throat. “Like I said, it’s very dirty work.”_

…

“I don’t remember that.” Warren admitted. 

Mara lifted the last of the papers from her lap and incinerated them all at once, their ashes falling into the bucket with an audible thump. “Since your father got to set his own hours for his work, he was the one who stayed home with you most often.”

“Well, I remember that!” Her son scoffed. 

Dad was an ‘independent contractor’. He took a contract to do a job for an independent client. More often than not, these jobs took him over sees and kept him away for weeks. But he got paid enough for each mission that he really only had to take a contract once or twice a month. The rest of his time was filled with home life. Making breakfast and dinner –Dad was an awesome cook!- taking Warren to school in the mornings, picking him up in the afternoons, helping him with his homework. Grocery shopping and daily cleaning. Light household maintenance. Falling asleep on the couch with the cat on his lap…

The memories Warren had of his father did not match up with the image of the ‘evil beyond redemption’ supervillain everyone else seemed to paint of him. To the rest of the world Barron Battle was the Devil incarnate. To Warren, he was always just… ‘Dad’.

Standing, Mara brushed whatever ash had fallen onto her lap off. “Well, guess I’ll start dinner now.”

Warren leapt to his feet. “Please don’t!” Everything Mom cooked ended up burned and flavorless. “Let me cook! I’ll be starting culinary school soon. I’ll need the practice.”

“Fine.” Mara sat back down. That did not take much convincing. Warren already surpassed her in cooking skills almost as soon as he became tall enough to reach the stove. 

Seeing that her warm lap was now empty, Soot jumped up. Curled into a ball. And promptly fell asleep. Fire-humans made the best beds. After all, they were made of warms. 

From the kitchen window, Warren watched his mother as he rolled shredded pork up in tortillas. She sat in that iron lawn chair for a while –almost as long as it took Warren to make a decent meal- just staring up at the North Hills and the greenery she made Layla grow for her. 

But that was only the direction she was staring into. Warren had no idea what she was thinking, but he could see waves of heat rising off her shoulders, distorting the air around her. Not real fire, no visible flame. Just base, primal, directionless heat. Mara got so hot, in fact, that Soot jumped off her lap and came inside to bother Warren. Rubbing against his legs and weaving between his feet, almost tripping him while he had a knife in his hands. 

“Omg! Alright, you little attempted murderer.” He muttered to the cat. Taking a can of cat food out of the pantry, he portioned out half of it and set it down for Soot to eat. “You act like I’m never gonna feed you too.” He muttered, stroking the cat’s fur. “Little monster.”

Warren portioned out taquitos between himself and his mother, adding rice, beans, spicy salsa, and fresh sliced jalapenos to the plates –fire users liked it hot. He brought the plates outside to eat in the yard. 

The wrought iron arm rests of Mara’s chair were glowing slightly now. 

Warren paused before passing his mother her plate. “You, uh, wanna take a sec to cool down, Mom?”

Mara blinked, as if waking up from a trance. She looked at the metal of the chair she was sitting in, heated so hot that it was glowing. She huffed and sighed, as if it were no more than a minor inconvenience and stood. Crossing the yard, she grabbed the garden hose and sprayed down the chair with cold water. It hissed and steamed, but when she turned off the stream, the chair was once again black iron. Mara sat back down in the wet chair and took a plate from her son. 

Warren continued to stare at her for a moment longer. 

She had been moody and prone to melancholy ever since his father was taken from them. But these episodes where she would just disassociate and stare off into nothing, letting her power slowly burn whatever was around her were relatively new. Only starting after the first time he allowed his friends –Will Stronghold chief among them- to come over to his house. It was the main, big, colossal reason Warren was always reluctant to allow the gang over to his house or to spend any amount of time around his mom.

He knew they had their own theories and guesses. That he was self-conscious about where he lived. And, yeah, there was that too. Warren lived in a cheap house, in a cheap part of town. The roads were cracked, the sidewalks were upturned, the city piping –drinking water, and sewage- was old and ill maintained. So, yeah, there was that to be embarrassed about. Or that because his mother put on such a convincing mask of being sweet, and kind, and caring, and altruistic, and social, extroverted, and comfortable with people, that she would detract from his ‘bad boy’ image. But Warren was more than well aware that that image was already irreparably ruined. No one in their gang could see him as dangerous anymore. Not if he was best friends with Will and Layla. 

The real reason he didn’t want his friends coming over to his house was because he didn’t know what his mother would do, and it worried him that he didn’t know. Mara was a hero. She had always been a hero. But she was also broken inside. So broken that it showed if she wasn’t actively trying to hide it. So broken that her fire didn’t work right anymore. 

Because the Commander took her love away from her. 

Finally, Warren sat down next to his mother. “Mom, you’d tell me if you were planning some ridiculously circuitous plan to take revenge on the Strongholds because of Dad, right?”

Mara paused, actually considering the idea. Then shook her head. “No. I don’t think I would.”

“Mom!” Warren shouted, almost jumping back to his feet. 

“Oh, relax.” His mother brushed off his concerns with a scoff. “I would never do anything that would put you in danger.” A pause to take a bite of the food he made. “You’re about the only thing I care about anymore.” 

…

It was pretty impossible to pay attention in class the next day. After their first outings with their mentors, all anyone wanted to do was talk about their internships. They had to be shushed several times, by multiple teachers, across multiple classes. Everyone was just about ready to burst by the time the lunch bell rang and they all gathered in the cafeteria. 

“Wait, who’s missing?” Will asked once they were all seated at their table. 

“No one’s missing.” Magenta tilted her head and squinted at him as if to ask if he was an idiot or just doing a bit. “We’re all here.”

“Aren’t there more of us?” He insisted. Perplexed that the feeling that something was missing from the table. A cloud of silent brooding and the almost in audible sound of pages turning. 

Layla cleared her throat. “Okay, so Warren graduated last year.” She reminded everyone. “It’s just the five of us now.”

That was it! That was the thing that was missing. The cloud of silent brooding and almost inaudible sound of pages turning was Warren Peace lurking at the end of their table, pretending to ignore all of them while he read something. It was a strange feeling. Almost like the cafeteria felt both brighter, but also emptier. The brooding cloud was gone, but so was the company it brought with it. 

Will suddenly missed his best friend. “I forgot, he’s not repeating the year.”

“What do you think he does during the day?” Ethan wondered aloud. “Like, now that he’s not coming to school.” 

“He might be putting in more hours with his internship.” Suggested Magenta. “Maybe he’s out with Will’s dad right now, punching bad guys and taking names.”

“No…” Will twirled something that resembled spaghetti on his fork absentmindedly. “Dad was on his way to check out a house when I left this morning.” 

“He’s probably putting in more hours at his job.” Zach made a perfectly logical suggestion. Now that he wasn’t stuck in school all day, Warren could take longer shifts at the Paper Lantern. 

Will, Ethan, and Magenta all nodded agreement that this was probably true. 

“Is no one going to suggest that Warren might be furthering his education?” Layla asked, insulted on Warren’s behalf. He was intelligent, passionate, and driven. Warren Peace could do more with himself than just being a porter at the local Chinese restaurant his whole life. 

They looked at her skeptically. 

“Sorry.” Said Zach. “But I just can’t imagine Warren Peace as a collage boy.”

“I didn’t say ‘collage’, I said ‘furthering his education’.” Layla clarified. “He could be learning a trade, or a skill. There are more options after high school than just ‘collage or bust’.”

“Hey, maybe you can ask his mom when you see her.” Suggested Ethan. “Since she’s your mentor and all.”

“Omg! I’ve been meaning to ask!” Magenta exclaimed. “What’s she like!? Warren never lets us hang out when she’s around. She seemed so peppy and perky at the matches, but Warren is so… not.”

“Oh, Flamebird is great!” Layla announced, smiling. “Ya know how the North Hills get fires every year around the end of summer? Well, yesterday she took me up there and we did exactly what I wanted to do. She showed me that by re-growing the hills, I can prevent mudslides. A totally non-violent and constructive way to be a hero!” 

“Wow.” Blinked the other girl. “That really is the perfect match for you. Things were a bit awkward between me and Titan at first. I mean, the guy’s almost old enough to be my grandfather, so there’s not a lot for us to talk about except superhero stuff. But a lot of his superhero stuff was more of going on missions for the government and stuff. He was actually a super-soldier, not a superhero.”

“And they let him be a mentor here at Sky High?” Zach asked. 

“Well, not everyone with powers can be a hero.” Magenta pointed out. “But there’s still a lot of space to fill in the divide between ‘hero’ and ‘supervillain’. How many kids do you think are in our graduating class? A hundred or so? How many active superheroes can you name? Forty? Less? What do you think the other sixty percent of supers do if they don’t become big-name, garish costume wearing, media darling superheroes? Live normal mundane lives, like normal mundane people who can’t make diamonds with their fists?”

Will set his spaghetti-like cafeteria food down and gave Magenta a sardonic smirk. “Is that why you showed up to the matches wearing basically what you wear every day anyway and don’t wear a mask?”

“You don’t wear a mask either.” She pointed out.

“Yes, but that’s a family tradition, not a design choice.” Will reminded her. 

Neither the Commander, nor Jetstream ever wore masks. The thinking behind it was that people needed to trust their heroes and you couldn’t trust someone who was hiding their face from you. Instead, they wore masks in their civilian lives. Socially acceptable, common place masks that most people didn’t even realize made a person look different. Not just glasses and combing your hair differently, but body language. Posture and mannerisms. Non-verbal cues that all people relied on when communicating without even realizing what they were. 

“Layla doesn’t wear a mask either.” Ethan pointed out. 

“That’s because I don’t plan on being the same kind of superhero as the rest of you.” She said. And it was true. Layla never wanted to punch bad guys or beat-up meteors. She wanted to regrow destroyed landscapes, combat deforestation, repair the ozone, fight global climate change, generally make the world a better place. None of that required her to hide her face. She was not going to be a vigilante. 

“I’m starting to think not wearing masks is the way to go.” Zach muttered. “At least then a person can read your face. Wraith doesn’t talk. At all. He just points where he wants me to go. I can’t even tell if I’m doing things right or if he’s annoyed with me ‘cause I can’t see his face! He’s completely covered and I have no idea what’s going on with that guy!”

Ethan snorted. “So, you’re saying the Shadow Hero is as much of a mystery as darkness itself.”

“I-“ Zach cut himself off abruptly, thinking about that. 

“It’s his aesthetic.” Magenta laughed. 

“Well, he shouldn’t volunteer to be a teacher if he’s not gonna actually teach anything!” Zach snapped at the table. 

“That’s the thing, though.” Explained Ethan. “Our mentors aren’t technically teachers. When we start our internships we’re supposed to already know everything we need to know to be heroes. The internships are just to give us some experience under more seasoned supervision so we don’t get ourselves killed. Sometimes, a really vocal and talkative hero might have to team up with a more quiet and withdrawn hero, or one who’s deaf, or doesn’t speak the same language, or whatever. You need to learn to work with different kinds of heroes, not just the fun, friendly ones with clear communication skills.”

“Did Hardplace teach you that?” Layla asked, genuinely impressed. That was a good piece of wisdom right there, and Hardplace was so young! Only six years older than they themselves were. To be so wise at such a young age meant that Ethan’s mentor truly was a prodigy. 

“My mentor?” Ethan blinked. “No. We just got a pizza and sat on a rooftop talking about how becoming famous and popular was really more about luck than skills. I came up with that all on my own. Hardplace is really cool, though. Pretty down to earth for such a famous guy. Not intimidating like the Commander.”

“My Dad’s not intimidating!” Will was insulted on his father’s behalf. 

“Your dad is –literally- the most famous and popular superhero on Earth.” Magenta reminded him. “Agree with it or not, that makes a person intimidating.”

Will muttered something under his breath that might have been reluctant acceptance. After all, he went a very, very long time before confessing to his father that he was placed in the Sidekick track and didn’t have any powers because he was afraid of what the older man might think. He was intimidated by his father. Not in the traditional sense of the word, but it still applied. The Commander was intimidating. 

“Still,” said Will, “I’ll take any of your mentors over my own. Bedrock spent our entire first day talking about how great and amazing some old supervillain was.” 

“That’s kinda weird.” Zach commented. 

“Well, the supervillains are always talking about and obsessing over the superheroes all the time.” Ethan reminded everyone. “Why can’t a hero obsess just as much over a villain?”

That made sense. Obsession wasn’t an exclusive trait of villainy. Heroes could obsess too. One of the most famous figures in their History of Heroism class was obsessed with being prepared and planning for contingencies. He kept files upon files on every villain he ever fought, as well as every hero he ever teamed up with. Just in case a hero went bad and became a villain. He was obsessed with being ready to protect his city from everything. So, obsession was not a uniquely villain quality. 

“Yeah, but it wasn’t her villain.” Will explained. “It was one of my mom’s villains. Some woman who almost destroyed Maxville. Faultline.”

“Well that makes sense why she would be obsessed with her.” Magenta informed him. “They have similar powers. Faultline could create and control earthquakes. Bedrock, I’m assuming based off her name and general rock-climbing aesthetic, also has some kind of earth-ground based elemental power. Her obsession with Faultline is probably because she doesn’t wanna be like her, because they’re so similar in other ways. Kinda like how Warren is obsessed with not becoming like his father.”

…

Warren’s first class at his new school was how to boil water. 

Seriously. 

The first thing they taught him in culinary school was how to boil water. 

He heard jokes along those lines in the kitchen back at the Paper Lantern, but he thought that’s just what it was. A joke. But no. He actually paid –dipping into the trust fund his father left for him- to be instructed in how to boil water. 

That wasn’t true. 

The vast majority of the first class was talking about the syllabus, kitchen safety, how to handle a knife, what to do for a grease fire, and the rigors of proper sanitation. Do this. Don’t do this. After the end of it all, there wasn’t really much time left for anything besides how to boil water. 

Warren stepped out of the classroom holding two paper cups of hot water as if they were some kind of great achievement. 

That was how Steve Stronghold found him when he pulled up in his car. 

In his car. Wearing his glasses and a button down shirt. His civilian guise of a realtor. Warren was confused as he sat down in the passenger seat, still holding his two cups of the water he boiled. 

“Oh, hey, you got us coffee!” Steve reached across the center console to take the paper cup closest to him. He took a sip, very quickly realized it was decidedly not coffee. Swallowed. Then coughed. “It’s a little weak.”

Warren just turned his head and looked at the older man. Glared at him, actually. A glare very similar to the ones he tended to give Will when he acted like a sheltered and naïve moron. It wasn’t until the Commander stopped coughing and met the boy’s eyes that Warren realized he probably shouldn’t be doing those same things with Steve Stronghold. Yes, the man was his best friend’s dad, but he was also the world’s greatest superhero and the man who threw his father in prison. 

They did not have the same easy relationship with friendly, casual hostility like Warren had with Will. They were not equals. 

Warren cleared his throat, taking the cup of hot water back from Steve, he placed both cups in the cup holders. “My first class was on how to boil water.” Said the boy, by way of explanation. “It seemed wrong to just throw the water out afterwards. Waste.”

This made an odd amount of sense to Steve and he didn’t quite get why until he realized he was hearing the boy’s words in Layla’s voice. Leave it to people with elemental gifts like fire and foliage to recognize the importance of not wasting natural resources. The paper cups were also post-consumer materials (recycled paper) and biodegradable. Layla would approve. 

Steve wondered if it might help him to relate to the boy if he thought of Warren as just a regular elemental super, and not his old nemesis’ son. 

“This is weird, meeting in our civilian clothes.” But then the boy just had to speak. In a voice so similar to Barron’s. Looking at him with eyes a deep brown the same as Barron’s. Warren wasn’t Barron, but… it was impossible for Steve to see the boy as anything but Barron Battle’s son. 

But then, that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

He requested to be Warren’s mentor because he was Barron Battle’s son. As a sort of ‘atonement’ for robbing the boy of his father. 

Steve cleared his throat. “Hydro never let you know his civilian identity?”

“No.” Came Warren’s low growl of a response. 

That seemed a little unfair. Especially considering that Warren didn’t even have a superhero identity yet. Hydro knew Warren’s real name, who his parents were, and where he lived. But Warren knew nothing of Hydro except that he was a water user and was supposed to be his mentor. Steve was glad Lynda Powers was doing an overhaul of, not just the match determinations, but the whole intern and internship system. It was still a very new and imperfect replacement for the sidekick system. It was just a shame these kicks had to be worked out with kids he knew. 

“Well, you already know who I am, so there’s really no point in hiding.” Steve shrugged. “Now put your seatbelt on. This car’s not moving until you’re belted in!”

Warren experienced a weird feeling of déjà vu. 

…

_It was approaching his ninth birthday and Dad finally deemed him tall enough to ride in the front seat._

_It was just the normal morning drive to school, nothing big or special. Literally, no different from any other day, except he finally got to sit upfront. Needless to say, Warren was excited._

_“Tamper that down, Little Soldier.” Barron told him. “I don’t wanna have to explain burned homework to your teacher.”_

_Looking down at the hands holding his backpack, Warren realized he was so excited his fingers were flickering. Not truly on fire. His power was still new and maturing. He wasn’t old enough yet to manifest full blown live flame. But the flickering started whenever he got really emotionally charged. Excited. Scared. Angry. Happy. All the high emotions that burned hot._

_Warren tried to concentrate like his mother showed him. How letting his feeling reign free bolstered his flames, made them grow. But forcing one’s self to calm down, to draw that feeling back into yourself dampened the flames. Allowed you to put them out. Drew them inside where they could smolder quietly where no one could see._

_“That’s better.” Barron nodded. He turned the key in the ignition, but did not pull out of the parking space. “Now put your seatbelt on. This car’s not moving until you’re belted in!”_

…

“You alright there?” The Commander was giving him a weird look. 

Warren blinked, as if waking up from a trance, and wondered if this was what it was that his mother did. Disassociated from real time and got lost in a memory. “What?”

“You kinda spaced there for a second.” Steve informed him. 

Shaking his head, Warren belted himself in, feeling oddly hollow. “I’m fine. Let’s go do whatever it is that you wanted to do when you came to pick me up.”

…

The senior class no longer had gym, or electives. After lunch, instead of attending more classes, they reported to their respective mentors. 

Layla was excited to work with Flamebird again. She wondered if they were going to spend more time in the North Hills, or if they were going to head into the mountains to help some of the areas that had been clear-cut by the logging industry. 

Instead, Flamebird flew them into town. 

Into Maxville Adjacent. 

What she described the previous day was right. Max Adj. did not look well cared for by the city. The roads were cracked and marked with deep pot holes. Some of them looked like the regular wear and tear of city life, while others were very clearly craters left behind from one super battle or another. Old ones that were never repaired and just allowed to get worse over time. 

The streets were lined by trees, but the trees weren’t maintained either. It looked like the city hadn’t sent out a trimmer in a very long time. The branches spread above the streets, darkening them with a thick canopy of foliage. Some branches hanging down into the road, creating hazards. The roots were also overgrown. Lifting the slabs of sidewalk up so that there wasn’t a single even segment anywhere along the street. 

There was an odd smell in the air. 

Layla looked at her mentor. This was not the day out in the mountains she’d expected, but it did seem like this was a place where she could do a lot of good. 

Flamebird pulled the hood of Layla’s jacket up over her head. Readjusting the girl’s hair underneath it so that no loose fly-always pressed own by the hood got in her eyes. It was a gentle, maternal gesture. “Keep your hood up when we’re around people.” She commanded, offering a reassuring smile. “Since you don’t have a mask, that will have to hide your identity.”

“Why should I have to hide my identity?” The younger woman asked. 

The corners of Flamebird’s mouth didn’t exactly turn down in a frown, but they did tighten in a weird way. Like her instinct was to frown but she was forcing it not you. After a prolonged pause, that odd tight expression melted into a gentle smile. “You’re still young so this isn’t an issue for you yet. But some day you might have a family. We protect our identities to protect our families. So that children aren’t held accountable for their parents.”

That answer made sense. But Layla was about to comment that she couldn’t possibly make any enemies if she wasn’t placing herself at odds with anyone. If there was no one to clash with, then there was no one to become her enemy. 

Then the exact phrasing caught up with her. ‘So that children aren’t held accountable for their parents.’ Flamebird wasn’t talking about herself. She was talking about her lover! About Barron Battle. How many times had Warren felt like apologizing for things that had nothing to do with him, but because it was something his father was allegedly involved in? Hell! Warren’s first mentor refused to pass him because he was Barron Battle’s son! Warren had been held accountable for his parent’s actions probably for half his life!

“Did-“ Layla cut herself off, unsure whether or not she even had the right to ask. But her curiosity proved to be stronger than her manners. “Did Mr. Battle not wear a mask?”

She regretted the question the moment it was out of her mouth. There was a very clear and perceptible change in her mentor. In the very air around them. Whatever light breeze there was halted, pushed back by a radiating heat that was oppressive and stifling. Layla could see some of the leaves of the trees closest to them turn brown and curl in on themselves, dehydrated and almost burned. But there was no fire. No living flame. 

Then Mara took a deep breath. Brushing a strand of red hair out from in front of her mask, she smiled again. An odd smile that seemed strangely asymmetrical and did not make its way up to her eyes. “Barron wore a visor sometimes.” 

Layla was left with more questions after that –actually, because of that. That was a weird reaction. But she was too afraid to ask. Thinking she’d upset her mentor and not wanting to do that. Barron Battle had always been a touchy subject with Warren, it stood to reason that he would be a touchy subject with Warren’s mother too. But while Warren would burst into flames and shout for people not to talk about his father, Mara just… smiled and walked away. 

“Let’s get started.” The older woman called to Layla. 

Mara directed Layla to persuade the trees to shift and lower their roots, allowing the sidewalk to fall back to something resembling what it must have looked like when it was first laid down. The soil underneath it was still displaced, and the concrete itself was cracked, but it was certainly flatter than it was previously. They repeated this exercise for several city blocks. Starting on Avenue A and working down the alphabet until they got to Avenue P and Layla started to actually recognize the area. 

“Hey, isn’t this where you and Warren live?” She asked. Admittedly, Layla had only been over to Warren’s house a handful of times, and always with the gang so she was always paying more attention to them than she was their surroundings. But this particular line of houses with chipping paint and dry dirt front yards looked familiar. 

Again, Flamebird paused. Instead of answering immediately, she smiled a patient smile and pointed to a kid walking home from school on crutches, one leg in a cast. He couldn’t have been any more than middle school aged. Injured and walking home alone. “See that boy there?” Mara asked. “He broke that leg riding his skateboard along this stretch of sidewalk. The wheel caught in a crack. His grandmother is going to be paying the hospital bill for the next four years at least. Something that could have been easily avoided if the city just maintained the street.” 

“Are you close with your neighbors, Ms. Peace?” Layla asked. 

“Flamebird.” Mara corrected her. “When I’m in costume, you must call me ‘Flamebird’. And, no. Not very. But, of course, I care about them. As superheroes, our main responsibility is to the ‘greater good’. What greater good is there than to reduce human suffering?” 

Layla could not abide suffering of any kind. So, there was nothing for her to disagree with in that statement. 

It was just hard to imagine this woman who cared so much about people. Not just people’s lives, but quality of life and well being. About living conditions and preventative disasters. About families’ hospital bills, and city maintenance. Could have had an affair with a supervillain. More than just an affair, probably, since she seemed to still keep Barron Battle’s clothes in the house. At least, Layla assumed that’s what it meant when Warren showed up to prom wearing his father’s tux. 

Layla was so full of questions. 

But she was also reluctant to ask any of them for fear of insulting her mentor. Barron Battle was a touchy subject with Warren, and it looked like he was a touchy subject with Mara too. Barron Battle was just a touchy subject in general. 

What kind of supervillain was he…?


	5. Tremors

Steve ended up driving himself and Warren for a long time. The boy yawned in the passenger seat, trying to pay attention to what Will’s dad was telling him about secret identities, and Maxville, or whatever it was he was actually talking about. 

“You see, realty isn’t just something to pay the bills and support the family.” Steve was saying. “It’s a job that takes you all over town. Let’s you get a lay of the land so to speak. Survey your surrounding and do reconnaissance without donning a costume and drawing attention.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Warren asked, face turned to the passenger window.

They must be heading up into the mountains. The buildings melted away as they sped by. The view being replaced by dense trees, occasionally interrupted by a broken-down trailer, or dilapidated old cabin. Warren had never seen this part of Maxville before. He thought Max Adj. was bad. If Max Adj. was the ghetto, then this place was the sticks! 

“No.” Steve pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “I’m just trying to make conversation. It’s kinda a long drive to where we’re going since neither of us can fly.” A pause. “You can say something back, ya know. Don’t let me dominate the conversation.”

Yeah, like he dominated the super world and community. Warren had a couple snappy comebacks for that comment, but decided none of them were exactly appropriate. Instead, he looked back out the window. They truly looked like they were in the middle of nowhere now. 

“Where are we?” He finally asked. 

Steve’s expression tightened a bit. His jaw clenching, then unclenching before he said, “I guess you’ve never been to Bedlam Unincorporated before.”

“I haven’t.” Warren shook his head. 

“Back when we were in high school…” The older man began to explain. “…This was where Barron lived.”

He turned off the highway onto an uneven dirt road. They could hear the gravel being kicked up and hitting the undercarriage. It couldn’t have been good for the car. And every now and again, they would go over an uneven patch of churt, a depression in the soil, or a raised tree root and the car would jump more than the shocks could compensate for. It was an uncomfortable drive, made all the more uncomfortable by the announcement that this was where Barron Battle was from. 

This out-of-the-way, back woods, dirt roads, middle of nowhere, hill folk town. So far removed from the rest of Maxville city and society that they felt the need to specify ‘Unincorporated’ on the road sign. (Not that there was a road sign.) 

Warren looked out through the trees as they blurred past. His father never talked about Bedlam Unincorporated before. Then again, to the best of his fragmented childhood memory, Warren could never remember his father talking about his family at all. 

Mom had Grandma, Olive-Blanch Peace, whom went by the superhero name ‘Dove’. Warren affectionately called her ‘Obie’, because her initials were O-B. She baby sat for him sometimes when his parents wanted to have a ‘date night’. Obie told him about her late husband, his grandfather, Chaim Peace –whom he apparently inherited his fire from. Going back on his mother’s side, Warren had grandparents and great-grandparents tracing their lineage back generations. All small-time heroes. Fire wielders and slow flyers. 

But on his father’s side there was… just Barron Battle. 

Finally, the car slowed to a halt and Steve cut the engine. 

“Road stops here.” He announced. “We’re gonna have to hike the rest of the way. I hope you’re wearing good shoes.”

Without comment, Warren climbed out of the car and followed his mentor through the woods. 

It looked like there had been some kind of path at one point in time. There were two clear lines of white stones, lined up in parallel rows, just wide enough for two men to walk shoulder to shoulder. But it was overgrown with ten years or more worth of forest life. The spread of tree roots displacing the rocks, under brush and shrubs hiding them, moss or mushrooms enveloping them completely. It made the path hard to follow and the journey up to wherever it was they were going difficult. 

Finally, through the thick veil of trees, Warren finally saw the only thing in this Maxville-forsaken wood that could possibly be their destination. 

A broken and crumbling cottage. 

It might have at one time been a nice house. It was a little hard to tell. The exterior was covered in natural stone, held together by old and crumbling cement. The inside, paneled in wood that was molding and had moss and mushrooms growing out of it. Between the two layers, plaster, drywall, and asbestos insulation. 

One of the walls was collapsed, and the roof was caving in. There was no actual ‘inside’ to get into. Everything had fallen in on itself. The ravages of time and all that. But it might have at one point in its life been a two-story structure. There was a series of flat wood panels that looked like they could have been steps of a stair case, and there were windows collapsed on top of other windows. In its day, this might have been a comfortable house for a small family. 

If it had been better maintained, out here in the middle of the woods, the place might even have looked like a fairy tale cottage. It was hard to believe that this was the place a supervillain everyone insisted was the physical embodiment of all things evil could have come from. The only thing about it that looked even the least bit ‘nefarious’ was a sledgehammer, innocently leaning against a crumbled segment of porch and almost completely enveloped by vines. 

“Why’d you bring me up here?” Warren finally asked. 

“I checked the property records.” Steve told him. “That’s a normal thing realtors can do. It’s not creepy.”

Warren didn’t think it was creepy until Will’s dad decided there was a need to explain that it wasn’t creepy. “Yeah… and?”

“This place still belongs to your family.” A pause. “To you. I was thinking you might like to use it as an Inner Sanctum. Or, I guess, just a Sanctum.” Another pause. “It’s a peace offering. Since I think I upset you before. I just wanna make things clear that I don’t think you’re going to become a villain like your dad. I just think you need a little guidance. You can be a hero, and every hero need a base of operations.”

Steve reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. 

Warren looked back at the collapsed house. There was no door anymore. 

“The keys are symbolic.” Steve tried to explain. 

Warren looked back at the dilapidated house. Then back at the Commander. “So, let me get this straight.” He began. “You want me to have my base of operations, up on a mountain, far from any version of major civilization, in the middle of nowhere, where it’s totally isolated…?”

“Well, when you describe it like that, it sounds kinda villain-ish.” Steve had to admit. “I don’t mean you should lurk up here scheming. Just, have a place to hang up your kevlar and plug in your red phone. To practice your fire-bending, and have a trophy room.”

“I’m not gonna keep trophies.” Warren informed him. ‘Trophies are an empty pursuit for useless people to make themselves feel important.’ Thought Warren in a voice that echoed remarkably like his father’s.

“Okay. Not trophies, then.” 

Warren was still not sold on the idea. He never really imagined himself with an Inner Sanctum, or similar base of operations, when he was a full-blown hero. His mother certainly didn’t have one, and –to spite being a supervillain- his father didn’t have any kind of ‘secret lair’ either (to the best of his limited knowledge). So, Warren never felt the need for one. 

But Steve Stronghold was the type to keep a secret base. He and his wife both, and the Admiral before him. So, Warren could recognize this as the meaningful gesture Will’s dad meant it to be. The Commander was trying. That had value. “I’ll have to burn it down to the foundation and rebuild it from ashes.”

And wouldn’t that just be a metaphor for his whole darn life.

…

Will’s second day with Bedrock, she took him around to all the major buildings in Downtown Maxville. City Hall, the Courthouse, the Central Metropolitan Hospital, Police Plaza, a number of museums, and a residential high rise called the Spear. Will must have done more walking that day than he had in the past four years. 

She was showing him the architecture and Will wondered if she was also a realtor in her civilian identity, too. Like his parents. 

But it was very specific aspects of the architecture that she was pointing out. Lateral bracing, laminated windows, generators and water heaters mounted on springs, buildings built on shocks, support pillars that transfer swaying motion down to the foundations. All of it, measures taken to ensure buildings remained safe and stable during an earthquake. Maxville being built right on a fault line, it was important. 

So, Bedrock was still on her Faultline kick. Will was getting kinda board of constantly hearing about this villain all the time. A villain that was defeated before he was even born and hadn’t resurfaced since. In all likelihood, Faultline was probably dead. Why keep obsessing over her? It wasn’t like another super with the ability to create earthquakes was gonna come along and try to destroy Maxville and all the supers that lived there. 

Most supers with the elemental gift of earth manifested their gift as chlorokinesis, power over plants and foliage –like Layla. They probably weren’t gonna see another super with the power to create earthquakes for another couple generations or so, never mind one that would want to use their power to raze cities to the ground. 

Will yawned. 

Maybe he should speak to Principal Powers about his mentor not being a good match for him. 

Apparently, flyers had a habit of keeping their heads in the clouds when they should have their feet on the ground –whatever that meant. Since he was a flyer like his mother, they matched him with a super that had an earth-ground based power. Supposedly to keep him level-headed and grounded in reality. But Will wasn’t sure he was actually learning anything of value with Bedrock. They certainly hadn’t done anything that could be considered ‘hero work’ in the last two days. 

Then again, it had only been two days. 

Maybe he should wait it out. See if things improved. 

At the end of the day, Will went home still undecided. He would call Warren in the morning. Having already gone through an internship and a negative mentor experience himself, the pyrokinetic might actually have some helpful advice. Dad wasn’t home yet, so that meant that Warren was probably still out too. That was probably the only reason Will didn’t call the other man as soon as he got home. 

He hoped things were going alright between his dad and his best friend. It would really suck if his best friend couldn’t find a mentor that worked for him. 

Maybe he should call Layla. She was always full of helpful advice.

Will flopped on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He imagined all his friends doing so much hero stuff with their mentors. Magenta and Titan digging minors out of collapsed shafts, Ethan and Hardplace rescuing high-profile politicians or their families, Zach and Wraith stopping bank robbers, Layla and Flamebird putting out forest fires and regrowing destroyed woods, Warren and his own dad punching meteors away from Earth. And all Will got to do with his mentor was listen to lectures about some long-dead supervillain and then get sent home early because there was nothing better to do. 

Heck! Mom and Dad weren’t even home yet! And Mom wasn’t currently mentoring anyone. She could come home early and relax if there was nothing better to do. 

Everyone had something better to do, it seemed. 

This trail of thought was cut off rather abruptly, however, when the room began to shake. 

“Whoa!” Will jumped out of bed, floating in mid-air as the whole room trembled around him. 

Free weights rolling across the floor to hit the walls. Bookcases shuttering, threatening to fall. Will grabbed one just as if began to topple over, preventing the heavy furniture from collapsing on his bed. All its contents spilled out anyway. Books, and CDs scattering all over the room. The room was still shaking, he couldn’t very well just set it back up against the wall, so Will laid it gently on top of the bed it was about to fall on. At least nothing was crushed. 

Leaving his room, Will floated down the stairs. Picture frames swaying on the walls. In the kitchen the copper pots Mom hung over the stove clattered together, swinging on their hooks. Shelves and display cases fell across the floor. Glass shattered. Doorframes cracked, doors knocked off their hinges. Fractures appeared in the walls. 

Still floating, keeping his feet off the ground to not compromise his balance, Will went outside. 

Street lamps swayed, and flickered, their electrical wiring sparking and crackling where the cables inside were under stress. Other people were coming out of their homes, trying to keep away from the buildings, and crouching on the ground holding their pets or their children. 

The ground was still rumbling. 

A lamp post some ways down the street fell over and smashed its light fixture in the open road. 

A car, already driving unevenly from the ground shaking swerved to avoid hitting it, and accidentally jumped the curb into someone’s yard. 

Using his super-sonic flight, Will sped down the street and placed himself between the car and his neighbors just coming out of their house before they could be mowed down by the panicked driver. 

His back was to them, that was probably the only reason none of his neighbors’ recognized him as the Stronghold’s boy who lived just down the block. 

Then the power went out. The neighborhood was plunged into darkness as all the lights went dead. 

And the ground was still shaking. 

…

Hanging out with Titan was an experience. And, yes, Magenta insisted on calling it ‘hanging out’ not ‘being mentored by’. Because that’s really what it turned out to be more like. 

The vast majority of heroes did not go looking for trouble. Oh, sure, some of them patrolled their respective territories. But a ‘patrol’ was not –technically- the same thing as ‘looking for trouble’. 

Titan did neither of those things. 

He waited until he was needed. He was a soldier, and a soldier waited until he was called upon. 

While he was waiting, he took Magenta around town. Showed her a side of Maxville she had only heard about but never actually got to see. 

At a military boot camp just outside of down, he introduced her to a recruiter that specialized in super-soldiers. Unlike Coach Boomer, the recruiter didn’t scoff or degrade her by calling her ability ‘cute’. Quite the contrary, the recruiter was rather impressed with Magenta’s ability to shape shift into something small, that could fit through small spaces, and could go mostly overlooked by others. 

Magenta left the base with her hands full of pamphlets and informational booklets on different government careers where such a power would be an asset. Anti-terror agent, military spy, espionage, CIA operative. For someone that had been so quickly written off as nothing more than a ‘sidekick’ in her freshman year, Magenta had a surprising amount of exciting and dramatic career choices. 

After their fieldtrip to the boot camp, Titan took her back into town to show her a less attractive aspect of heroism, but one where her power could still be useful. Not all heroes wore capes and flew around the city throwing their husbands at giant robots. Some stayed on the streets, their feet firmly on the ground. Some took on gangs, and mobs, or police corruption. Some spent their whole hero careers in seedy back rooms or dirty allies, rarely seeing the light of day, but still making the city a safer place. 

There was a club in Downtown, not far from the Spear building, called the Divide. It claimed to be ‘neutral ground’. A meeting place for both superheroes and supervillains. Where they could grab a drink, eat some terrible bar food, and just relax and unwind –or dance very badly to the house music.

Magenta was too young to drink, the only reason she was even allowed through the door was because she was a super. Supers didn’t need their IDs checked, they just needed to prove they were, in fact, super. So, she sipped a Sheryl Temple and watched people’s bodies move across the floor. Appreciating the curves and gyrations of the professional go-go dancers suspended above the sound stage. 

“This place is run by a super called the Broker.” Titan explained, while he sipped on a beer. Even slouching against the bar, her seated on a tall stool, he towered over Magenta. He towered over most of the other people in the club, supers and mundanes alike. 

“Are they a villain or a hero?” Magenta asked, almost shouted to be heard over the loud, pulsing house music. 

“Neither.” Her mentor shook his head. “The Broker is a broker. The Broker makes deals. Arranges truces between rival factions, puts prospective doers in touch with prospective clients, finds talents for jobs, and finds jobs for talents. They’re probably the only truly Neutral super I know.”

“So, what as we doing here?” She asked. 

Titan drained his beer and ordered another. “They’re always looking for new talent and your talent is unusual. Finding jobs for you would be an interesting challenge, and the Broker might be able to find you an interesting niche.”

Setting her Shirley Temple on the bar, Magenta cast a sideways look up at her mentor. “So, basically, what you’re saying is, you don’t actually know how to mentor me. So, you’re trying to find me a job so you can train me for something specific, as opposed to adapting to my power.”

“What? No! That’s-!” The old man sputtered helplessly for a moment. Then cleared his throat, getting himself back under control. “Oh, you’re clever. They didn’t warn me you were clever.”

Magenta nodded, proud of herself for being able to make a seasoned super-soldier uncomfortable. “And maybe that’s my niche. Can’t argue that there’s not much of a surplus of brain cells to go around in the super community.”

Titan took a sip from his second beer. “Little Miss, I feel sorry for your future nemesis. You’ll give them nothing but hell.”

She offered another lop-sided grin. “What else are you supposed to give a nemesis?”

Titan gave a deep bark of a laugh. A laugh that was cut off abruptly then the bar began to shake. The dancefloor began to shake. The sound stage began to shake. The whole club was rocking and not in the good way. 

“What the-!?” Magenta hopped off her stool, then leaned against the trembling bar counter for balance. 

“Earthquake.” Announced unnecessarily. He reached one massive hand behind the bar and plucked the bartender out by the back of his uniform vest –just in time to save the man from a shelf’s worth of glasses falling on him. “Everybody outside!” He called. “Steer clear of the buildings and anything that can fall on you!”

The club was a swarm of activity suddenly. It became clear and apparent which ones were the heroes and which where the villains. Anybody who paused to help other patrons towards the exit, pick someone up with they fell, dashes back to the restrooms to make sure nobody was trapped in a toilet stall, those were the heroes. They may not be in civilian clothes, they may not be wearing costumes or masks. But a hero was still a hero, even if they were out of cape. 

The villains just stomped out of the building without a second glance at the other people in the room. Not caring if the mundanes –or even their own dates- made it out safely. 

As the shaking intensified, a couple of the strobe-lights and speakers fell across the sound stage. Trapping in the DJ and a pair of scantily clad go-go dancers that Magenta had been appreciating prior to the quake. 

Magenta moved faster than her mentor. She was already halfway across the room before Titan had even moved away from the bar. She picked up what of the fallen debris was light enough for her to lift on her own and threw it to the side. By herself, she managed to shift enough blockage for one go-go dancer to crawl off the stage. She kicked off her platform heels and darted across the dance floor barefoot, choosing splinters or shards of glass over uneven balance on a shaking floor and twisted or broken ankles. 

Titan finally appeared at Magenta’s side and lifted the DJ up from behind where he was trapped by the sound equipment without a ‘never you mind’ and set the man on his feet. Giving him a light shove, he sent the much smaller man running to the exit after the go-go dancer. 

But the second go-go dancer was a bit trickier. Titan tried to lifter by the provocatively thin strap of her costume, but she yelped in pain and he had to put her back down. 

“Something’s tangled around my leg!” She sobbed. Thinking she would most definitely die in here. 

The ground was still shaking and it was getting worse. The roof was swaying in a way that made it creak ominously, and the lateral bracing of the walls groaned through the sound-paneled façade. 

“I’m on it!” Magenta assured her, not wasting a moment to hesitate. 

She crouched down, curling on all fours and transformed into her guinea pig form. Magenta scuttled her way under the debris to the dancer’s leg. In fact, there was a sound cable wrapped around her ankle and tangled around the stiletto of her platform heel. Without pause, Magenta started chewing. It was a thick cable, and the world continued to tremble around them.

Using his own power, Titan expanded, growing in size to just barely large enough to fit inside the building. He flattened his back against the ceiling to keep anything more from falling while Magenta worked to free the trapped dancer. “Hurry up, Little Miss, there’re still be plenty of panicked morons to save outside.”

“I know, I know. Gimme a minute!” Snapped the guinea pig, in her tiny, high pitched, chipmunk voice. 

Finally, the cable gave way and Magenta shifted back to her human form to untangle the rest of the dancer’s leg by hand. The victim finally freed, Titan reached down with one gigantic hand and scooped both women up, and deposited them right next to the door. Magenta grabbed the dancer by the hand and pulled her out onto the open street, gathering in the middle of the road, as far from the tall and imposing buildings of Downtown as they could be. 

Titan came out just after them, shrinking back down to his baseline height to fit through the door, then growing again the moment he was outside. 

Growing to his full height. As tall as a sky-scraper. Bracing one hand on a tall office tower on one side of the street, and a second hand on a hotel on the opposite side to ensure that they wouldn’t come crashing down on the civilians. 

And the world continued to shake.

…

The moment the lights went out, Zach began to glow. Not consciously or anything, that’s just what his body did in the dark. 

Wraith grabbed him by the shoulder and phased them through a shadow created by Zach’s own glow and Wraith’s own body. It was the most bizarre feeling in the world. An odd kind of weightlessness, combined with a stifling pressure. Zach would have gasped, except he kinda forgot to breath. Everything around him was so dark. A darkness not even his glow could illuminate. When they rematerialized outside of the shadows again, the air felt strangely colder than it was a few seconds before. 

Or maybe that was because they were now several dozen feet above the open street. Zach flattened himself against the brick wall of the building he found himself on, his feet supported by nothing more than a narrow ledge. 

He glowed brighter from adrenaline and cast wide, betrayed eyes at his mentor. “What the heck!?”

Wraith pointed to Zach, then down to the intersection they were perched above. With the power, out the street lights were out. No signals to warn cars to stop. No sidewalk lights to illuminate the roads. Without some kind of light, cars would crash. People would be hurt –or killed. 

Realizing what his mentor wanted him to do, Zach closed his eyes, focused on his power, and made himself glow as bright as he possibly could. 

His hands clutching at a rain gutter for balance because the building he was perched precariously on was still shaking.

…

Ethan and Hardplace were –in costume- grabbing snacks at a local gas station when the quake started. 

There weren’t many people around, just the gas station attendant, a couple in a sedan that reeked of weed, and the driver of the tanker truck refilling the station’s underground tanks. 

As the trembling and shuddering intensified, the hose refilling the station’s tanks shook lose, spilling gasoline all across the concrete. 

Sprinting out the convenience store doors, Hardplace touched one foot on the spreading puddle of gasoline. The liquid gas solidified instantly. Not frozen. There was no chill to it. Just hard. Almost like crystal. Crystal made of petroleum. Hardplace turned to Ethan. “When you liquefy, can you move?”

“Yeah.” Nodded the younger man. 

“Can you control another liquid?” Was his mentor’s immediate follow-up question. 

“I- I donno. Never tried.” Ethan admitted. 

Hardplace shrugged. “No time like the present to try. We need to get this gas off the surface. I stopped it from spreading, but it’s still gas. Any spark could ignite it!”

Then the whole gas station would go up and them and the other people along with it. 

With a grim nod, Ethan melted into a puddle of slick. He oozed off the curb into the open station lot until all of him was on the solid puddle of gas. 

“As soon as I’m not touching this anymore, its gonna go back to liquid.” Hardpalce told him. “Are you ready?”

The puddle that was Ethan gave a strange little wiggled that Hardplace chose to interpret as a nod of affirmative. The older man lifted his foot and the gas went back to running over the asphalt. 

At first that’s all that happened. The puddle of gasoline continued to expand, spilling out onto the open street and Hardplace was about to step back into the fluid to turn it solid again. 

Then it changed color and viscosity. The gas got thicker, turning the same mottled yellow and orange as Ethan’s slick. There was a pregnant pause where in the fluid stopped moving. Then, like a slow, deep drawing in of breath, the wide puddle of gas and slick started pulling back. Flowing backwards. Trickling out of the street. Back across the parking lot. All of it pouring back up into the tanker truck it had spilled out form. 

Finally, after the last drop was off the asphalt, the singular puddle of slick that was Ethan’s body, and Ethan’s body only, dripped back out. He reconstituted himself into his baseline human body and did a funny little hop skip. 

“I’ve never done that before!” He shouted from across the parking lot. 

Hardpalce flashed him a thumbs up and a proud smile. 

But the ground was still shaking. 

…

Flamebird was getting ready to call it a day. She wasn’t sure what else around her neighborhood she could make Layla fix with her powers. The potholes in the roads needed some version of an earth-bender, not a chlorokinetic. The bad water and sewage needed someone from the city to actually give a damn and come out to lay some new goddamned piping. No amount of moving trees or growing vegetables in community gardens was going to fix that. 

Layla had proven to be remarkably useful in fixing the sidewalks and helping her neighbors with their produce. But they seemed to be reaching the end of Layla’s usefulness and it was only the second day of what was supposed to be a year-long mentorship. 

‘I want you to be nice to Layal.’ Warren had said. 

Mara suppressed the urge to scoff. The girl was so sweet and naive, even if Mara was a raging bitch to her, she was fairly certain Layla would just brush it off and say she was just having a bad day and things would be better in the morning. The girl was overly optimistic with an unfounded level of positivity. Ugh. Those kinds of people were just the worst.

But Warren liked her for some reason. 

Behind her mask, Mara suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Though he might deny it, hide it behind walls of hostility and hot surface anger, Warren had a soft heart. He was a gentle soul. Empathetic and caring. Like Mara herself used to be before she became jaded. For Warren’s sake, she would be nice to Layla. 

Goodness knew she had plenty of practice being nice to people she hated. And Layla she didn’t even hate, just sort of disliked on principal. 

Flamebird offered her mentee a sympathetic smile. “Are you getting tired?”

“A little.” The girl admitted. “But I can keep going if there’s more to do. Using my power on plants that are already grown is a lot easier than growing something new.”

If Mara could have thought of something else for her to do in that moment, she would have called Layla’s bluff and pushed her to keep working. Test her limits. Better understand this bleeding-heart child who very early on chose the Stronghold boy over own son, and yet Warren was still infatuated with. 

Instead, Flamebird shook her head. “It’s getting late and you should be getting home. I don’t know your parents, but if they’re anything like me, they’re probably worried about you.”

Layla blinked at that. She looked around, as if noting for the first time that they spent the whole afternoon in Warren’s neighborhood. It was getting dark now, and Warren still hadn’t come home. “Are you worried about Warren?”

“I always worry about Warren.” Mara told her. And it was the truth. 

Her son was the only damn thing she cared about anymore and she always worried about him. She worried about him when he first started at Sky High. She worried about him when he fought with the Stronghold boy. She worried about him when he got involved in a con to manipulate the Stronghold boy’s love life. She worried about him when he became friends with the Stronghold boy. She worried about him when his first internship fell through, and she worried about him being matched with the Commander for his do-over. Mara would never stop worrying about Warren. 

Layla reached a hand up to readjust her hair under her hood. As if suddenly self-conscious. “I- I worry about him too.” She admitted, shocking her mentor. “I worry that he’s too concerned about trying to prove himself. That he’s worthy, or whatever. That he’s not a supervillain. I worry he’s trying too hard, and that he’s gonna burn out.”

Behind the whited out eye-sockets of her mask, Mara stared at the girl. That was not the response she was expecting. That was not even a thought she expected the girl to have. 

But the most jarring thing, was that it was a concern that Mara herself had. Warren really was overly concerned with proving to the rest of the super community that he wasn’t like his father. That he wasn’t a supervillain. That he could be a hero and was deserving of a chance to prove he was a hero. That he went out of his way to prove it, and that he was working too hard to prove a point to people who didn’t care what he did and had already written him off as a villain for no other reason than he was Barron Battle’s son. Mara worried that Warren was exhausting himself trying to win the approval of petty men that didn’t give a darn about him and had already made up their minds. 

“He’s…” Flamebird began. She wasn’t used to sharing feelings and concerns with other people anymore. The words didn’t come easily. “He’s had a lot of upheaval in his life.”

“I can only imagine.” Layla replied. 

Because she could only imagine. She couldn’t truly understand. She lived with both her parents and got to see them every day. No one in her family had ever been accused of a crime, never mind actually sent to prison. She was never branded as ‘bad blood’ just because a close relative was bad. So, she couldn’t understand what it was like for Warren –or Mara for that matter- but she could imagine. 

If either of them was going to say more, they didn’t get the chance. Their attention was quickly diverted when the ground began to shake. 

The neighborhood was already cracked and broken. The houses old. The rumbling of the earth wasn’t the worse sound. All around them Layla could hear the creak of old and ill-maintained house frames groaning under the strain. People came out of their homes. The same boy with the broken leg from earlier hobbled out, trying to help an elderly woman she assumed was the grandmother Mara mentioned. He was trying to support her while he himself was barely supported by one crutch under one arm. 

One of the trees in front of their house swayed precariously, one branch overhanging the yard threatening to fall on the off-balance and slow moving pair. 

Flamebird flew across the street, placing herself between the boy and old woman, and the large branch. One yellow-gloved hand outstretched. She touched the bark, and the whole tree smoldered and was reduced to ash in a matter of seconds. Down to the roots. What had previously been the branch now floated in the air as dust. Looking like light fluffy black snow. It happened so fast, Layla didn’t even see her use any fire. There was no bright glowing flame. Just… poof. Incinerated. 

Could Warren do that? She’d never seen Warren do that. 

“Get your head in the game!” Flamebird shouted from across the street, still floating in mid-air. Ash wafting around her like an aura. 

Nodding under her hood, Layla picked her way down the broken street, occasionally having to go down on all fours to keep from falling down on the already uneven surface, made all the more unsteady by the quaking. She summoned thick, heavy vines to wrap and engulf the trees so that no more could fall on homes or people. 

The sidewalks she’d previously fixed were up-turned again. Not by her plants, but by the trembling of the earth. A pipe under the street burst, and foul smelling sewage bubbled up onto the street. Layla quickly realized why so many heroes preferred boots to sneakers. She would never wear these shoes again. 

People came out of their homes to avoid the buildings collapsing on them. But out on the street, the trees, street lamps, signs, stop lights were also in danger of falling. Layla did the best she could to lash and tether everything with vines to reduce the likelihood of something collapsing on an innocent person. 

She looked up, searching for Flamebird for some guidance or instruction of something more she could do. But her mentor was flying away from the neighborhood, up towards the North Hills. That was when Layla realized. She couldn’t quite see it clearly, it was in the dark of the evening and the lights were flickering too wildly for her eyes to adjust. But it looked like all the shaking had displaced the soft earth of the hills. All the greenery she planted the previous day was still too new and immature to hold the soil in place. All the shaking had knocked it loose.

A landslide was barreling down on Maxville Adjacent. 

Layla started running down the street in the direction her mentor was flying. She didn’t think she could actually get up to the hills in any meaningful time to help, but then, she didn’t know what Flamebird thought she could do either. What can fire do against a landslide?

Layla got her answer almost as soon as this question occurred to her. 

Flamebird was just a yellow and orange speck in the distance, but the moment she touched down on the land, the whole hill went aglow. Layla squinted. It didn’t flicker like fire, and there wasn’t anything to burn anyway. It was hard to focus with the world shaking, so it took her a moment to realize that it wasn’t a hill fire she was seeing. 

It was molten earth. 

Flambird had super-heated the ground, melting gravely earth. The hill glowed orange for several moments, and when it cooled, a black glassy sheet of obsidian was left behind. Sheer. Solid. Immobile. It was all Layla could do to stand there, in the middle of the trembling street, and stare. She never even saw Mara use any live fire. Layla had never seen Warren do anything like that. 

Then the lights went out. 

…

Warren and the Commander were back on the road when the shaking started. Making their way down the mountain back to Maxville proper. Slowly, the trees began to give way to more and more signs of civilization. First just a few scattered trailer homes. Then cabins and cottages. An actual trailer community. Gas stations. 

Warren was staring out the window when Steve suddenly exclaimed an expletive he would not have imagined the Commander using, and swerved the car up a bank. Throwing them both against their seat belts. Steve thrust an arm out across the passenger seat to keep Warren from flying forward, just like he would have done if it were Will sitting next to him.

“What just happened!?” Warren demanded.

But he needn’t have asked. Now that the car was no longer moving, it was easier to feel the shaking. A rumbling around them coming up from the very ground itself. 

“Earthquake?” The younger man asked, sounding dumb even to his own ears. Yes, it was an earthquake. Obviously. The Commander probably thought he was an idiot now. 

But Steve wasn’t paying attention to his stupid questions. He took his glasses off and stowed them in the glove compartment. Then began unbuttoning his shirt to reveal the hero costume he was wearing underneath. 

“Wow, you really do just wear that all the time, huh.” Warren commented. 

“Time to go to work.” Announced the Commander. 

Warren was just coming from school when Steve picked him up. His costume was folded up and stuffed in the bottom of his backpack. But there wasn’t time to change clothes right now. His mask, however, was quick and easy to slip on. Warren reached into the back seat, pulled his backpack to him and fished out the latex domino mask. He slipped it on his face and shrugged off his leather jacket. T-shirt and jeans wasn’t exactly common place superhero uniform, but it wasn’t unheard of.

Mask firmly in place, Warren sprinted after the Commander. 

Maxville was built on a fault line and Warren had lived in Maxville his whole life. Earthquakes were no big deal to him. But this one felt weird. Not that he claimed to be any kind of expert or anything. But in his nineteen years of experience they came on suddenly, started big, then tapered off, and stopped. But this one seemed to be getting worse. 

At least, as he jogged close on the Commander’s heels trying to catch up to his mentor, the shaking seemed to be climbing in intensity. This assessment was only confirmed when a number of trees fell across the road. 

The Commander paused, lifted the first tree and threw is off the road.

Finally catching up to the older man, Warren set both his arms aflame and used his fire to cut through the trunk. Setting the bark on fire, controlling to burn, folding it in on itself so that the fire didn’t spread. Keeping it contained. Using it to cut through the wood. He repeated the exercise until the large tree was cut into enough pieces for him and his simple above average strength to push off the road. 

Warren and the Commander worked together like that for about a quarter of a mile until they came upon the trailer community they passed earlier. 

This far up into the mountains, they didn’t run off city plumbing or gas. The community had its own well and septic tanks. Each trailer had an exterior propane tank for gas. 

As the quaking continued, still climbing in intensity, more trees were shaken loose from their roots and fell over. Smacking against other trees, breaking branches or pulling more trees down with them. 

One branch, broken to a sharp point, grazed an exterior propane tank, releasing highly flammable gas into the air. 

“Your fire!” The Commander shouted at the younger man. 

But the warning came just a moment too late. The gas making contact with Warren’s flames just as the older man shouted it. 

The air around the fire user seemed to explode, threatening to engulf the propane tank, the trailer it was attached to, and the people it was home to. 

But Warren remained calm. Thrust one arm out in front of him, reaching out with his power, grabbing hold of the new fire that was not his own and taking control of it. Folding it away from the trailer, out of the propane tank, he wrapped it around himself. 

Fire was the element of emotion. Fear. Excitement. Rage. Love. Hate. All the feelings that burned hot. And like emotion, fire needed an outlet. Doing a little twirl that was uncharacteristically showy for him, Warren spun the mini-inferno around himself as if trying to spend physical momentum. Then raised his arm above his head. Sending the plume of flame harmlessly into the sky. 

When he was done, the only fire left illuminating him was his own. 

“Whoa.” The Commander sounded genuinely impressed. 

The family from the trailer just stared at him. Some young kid in the company of the Commander, wearing a mask, with superpowers obviously, but only wearing jeans and a t-shirt. “Who’re you? ‘Flameboy’?”

Warren wrinkled his nose. Of all the names that had been suggested to him for when he became his own hero, that was not even on the list. His attention was pulled back to the matter at hand, however, when he caught a glimpse of the view through the trees. 

Grabbing the Commander’s shoulder, Warren pointed between the trees to Maxville below. “The city.”

Block by block, in the order the electrical grid was laid out, the whole city was going dark. A full blackout. 

…

Battle had hoped he would get another letter from Warren. Possibly talking about how his second internship was going, or what kind of super they had paired him with as a mentor this time. 

But no new letters had come since Warren’s most recent one talking about his second chance. 

So, Battle entertained himself by rereading one of his son’s older letters. The near novel-length one recounting his sophomore year, his fake-dating plot with Layla, and how he and young Stronghold became best friends. It had been years since receiving the news and Battle still couldn’t get over it. Either young Stronghold was actually a decent person, not like Steve at all. Or else his own son had absolutely no taste in friends. 

After having so many years to think about it, Battle chose to believe it was the former, not the latter. After all, the boys started out as nemeses. It was only after they were forced to work together against a common enemy that they became friends. 

Best friends. 

Besides, he refused to believe that his son had bad taste. 

Battle indulged in a little chuckle. Steve must hate it! Ha! He must hate the idea of his son being best friends with Barron Battle’s son as much as Battle himself hated it at first. 

That was really the big selling point for Battle. That was the thing that got him to start to –hesitantly- appreciate the boys’ friendship. The idea that it would be slow, passive torture for Steve. Battle liked to imagine his old rival clenching his fist and gritting his teeth whenever he saw the two together. Hanging out. Sharing jokes. High fiving. Acting as wingman with girls. 

Anything that might bother the great and wonderful Commander was A-OK in Battle’s book. 

It took him a couple years. But after the shock of first learning about it wore off, Battle rather liked the idea of his son being friends with Steve’s boy. 

Battle might be locked up in this oubliette, but Steve would still see him every day. 

Take that, asshole! 

Ha!

Steve Stronghold would never be rid of Barron Battle. 

The lights of his cell flickered oddly. 

That was about the only warning Battle got before the ground began to shake. 

Folding Warren’s letter up and slipping it in a pocket of his jumpsuit, Battle rolled off his cot and crouched on the concrete floor. 

The light flickered more, and the water in his toilet rippled and splashed as the rumbling intensified. Maxville was built on a fault line, earthquakes were nothing out of the ordinary. But this one felt different. Odd. Usually, they were just a jolt, and a shake, and then it was over. This one was still going. 

Not just still going, but growing in intensity. 

The light went out. 

So did lights outside. The fence lights, the parking lot… the guardhouse, and fence. 

Battle was plunged into complete and total darkness. And the world was still shaking. Still shaking and still getting worse. 

As the walls and floor around him trembled, Battle did a mental inventory of all the floors above him. How many layers of beams, paneling, and insulation could come crashing down on him. He was pretty sure it wouldn’t kill him, even if the whole building fell squarely on him, but it would hurt like hell and trap him in. (Even if it did kill him, was that even a big deal? Four consecutive life sentences and all.) 

Almost as if this thought were prophetic, Battle heard the grinding scraping of a crack forming in concrete. 

It was impossible to see what was happening around him in the dark, but he turned to the sound all the same. Keeping low to the ground for balance. Eyes straining in the dark, trying to see what he already knew he couldn’t. 

Then there was the sound of a second crack. 

Then a third. 

And the world was still shaking. 

The sound after the third crack was deeper. Not a crack. A break. There was a thump and a clang as something that could have only been a segment of wall falling on the stainless steel of his toilet bowl. Water sprayed into the air, splashing Battle’s face. 

He wiped his eyes, and squinted through the water and the dark to try and see what the hell was going on. 

A fragment of his cell wall was missing. Battle could see the faint twinkle of stars through the gap. The quaking intensified and more of the wall fell away. The celling cracked. Battle rolled out of the way just before a large chunk of concrete fell on him. Pressing his back flat against a wall, he inched his way closer to the gap. 

Stepping on top of the fallen rubble and broken toilet, Battle climbed out through the narrow hole in the wall just as more of the ceiling caved in. 

Outside, he did a quick hop and summersault to put more distance between himself and the building. 

It wasn’t just his cell that was cracking open. Fractures were forming all over the building, just barely visible in the weak starlight. Creeping up from the foundation of the structure, cracking open more cells. Battle saw more guys taking advantage of the breaks as he had. Bright orange and easy to see jumpsuits of Gen Pop, and the darker kaki jumpsuits of Max Sec. 

Battle understood why this didn’t feel like a normal earthquake. Because it wasn’t an earthquake. 

It was a prison break!

But there was no rhyme or reason to it. The building was breaking open randomly, wherever the construction was weakest. Letting out whoever just happened to be there regardless of who they were. This was an artificial earthquake to cause a prison break, without any plan as to whom to break out.

So, why then…?

Battle grabbed the first guy who ran within arm’s distance of him. Closing a fist around the other man’s wrist and pulling him close enough to demand a question. “Hey, you know what this is about?”

“Who cares? Just go!” The other man answered, shouting needlessly loud from adrenaline. He struggled out of Battle’s grip and ran towards the darkened lights of the fence. If the power was out, that meant the electricity was out. No electrified fence. No lights for the guards to see them by. Hell! The guards were probably still trying to pick themselves up. 

The ground was still shaking! 

For half a second, Battle looked back at the prison. At the hole in the wall that had been his ‘home’ for the better part of ten years. Like hell was he going back in there! The other guy had the right idea. 

Just go. 

So, Battle went. 

Jogging across the yard. Half way across, however, he changed direction. While all the other guys were rushing for the fence, Battle veered away. If everyone was going for the fence, then all the guards would divert to the fence. The electricity might be out, but radios still worked. They could still talk to each other. They could still call for backup. Battle found the main gate to the Yard and darted back into the building. 

Inside, the darkened lights swayed above his head, the beams they were suspended from making uncomfortable creaking groans. The windows were shattered, but thanks to the lamination on the plexiglas, no pieces fell to rain down on his head. He took a short cut through the cafeteria, the empty tables shaken off their bolts and misaligned by the tremors. 

Through the cafeteria to the kitchen. Through the kitchen to the loading dock where foodstuff companies made deliveries. 

With all the guards diverted to the fence surrounding the yard, where the majority of the guys were, there was no one to stop Battle’s escape. Jumping down from the loading doc, he sprinted to the delivery gate and climbed the fence. 

The ground was still shaking when Battle set foot outside the prison grounds. 

Free for the first time in ten years.


	6. Morning After

There was an odd stillness in the air. Like the silence in a concert hall after the music’s stopped, but before the audience stands to leave. 

The sun rose above a broken and partially collapsed city. Looking at it from the air, Maxville looked almost like a warzone. Towers and sky scrapers lilting to the side, some with visible cracks and fishers climbing half way up. Smaller buildings with roofs caved in. Peering closer to the streets, lamp posts and stop lights were fallen over. Wide fissures had opened up, all radiating out from the fault line and the epicenter of the quake. 

Flying overhead, Josie Stronghold, the superhero known as Jetstream pursed her lips with concern. Maxville hadn’t had a quake this bad in over twenty years. 

Pulling out her red phone, she dialed Will’s civilian cell. As a hero, she knew she probably should fly down and see what she could do. Help as many people as she could. But as a mother, her first concern was to make sure her son and only child was safe and unharmed. 

The call did not connect. Red phones always worked, but the civilian cell towers were down. 

…

It hadn’t been such a big issue in the dark, but as soon as the sun began to rise enough for people to see again, Will snuck home to change into his superhero uniform before heading back out to continue offering what help he could. 

White, blue, and red. Like his parent’s uniforms. With sleek lines. Form fitting to reduce on drag while flying. But unlike his parents, no cape. Will preferred to do his work without the extra weight hanging off his shoulders. 

He lifted downed telephone poles and fallen street lamps off people’s cars or houses. Flew injured neighbors to the hospital. 

Every hospital and clinic in Maxville was a mess. Overfilled with people. Beds in the corridors. People laying across chairs in the waiting room. Paramedics looking more injured than the people they were bringing in. Doctors seeing patients while they themselves had fresh dressings visible. 

One nurse looked up from the station where she was shouting into a radio. Noted Will’s bright costume and colors similar to the Commander and Jetstream’s. “You! Hero!” She called. “What’s your power?”

“Me?” He pointed at himself, suddenly feeling out of his depth. “I, uh, I’m super strong and I can fly.”

Well, he was wearing the Commander and Jetstream’s colors and looked young enough to be their offspring, and those were the Commander and Jetstream’s powers. 

“I need you to go to the 42nd fire house.” Ordered the nurse. “They’re fine, but they’re trapped in their truck bay. If we can get them out on the streets, that’ll be one more medic team and transport!”

“I’m on it!” Will nodded, glad for some clear instructions on what to do and how he could help. 

On his way out, he saw Nurse Spex from school rush in. She was wearing a costume he’d never seen her in at school, but assumed it must be her old uniform from when she was an active hero. “I’m here, Chuni, I’m here!”

“Cloris, thank goodness!” Exclaimed the nurse that had just sent Will on his mission. “We’re backed up in x-ray and could really use you! You wouldn’t happen to know a super with electoral powers, would you? The whole city’s out and the hospital’s backup generator wasn’t meant to be used indefinitely!”

That was all of the exchange Will heard before he flew off, looking for the 42nd fire house like he was ordered. 

…

Titan lifted debris –collapsed walls or ceilings- while Magenta, in her human form, helped pull out injured people. 

The owner of the Divide, the Broker, turned out to be two people, not one. A relatively young woman named Rivkah –‘young’ being used more as a term of respect, she was older than Magenta, newly married, and heavily pregnant- and her old and ailing grandfather whom she inherited her power from. The Brokers’ power, she was later told was to ‘see the truth of a person’, whatever the hell that meant! At the moment, it didn’t matter. 

What did matter, was that the Brokers seemed to be at least somewhat prepared for a large scale disaster. They had a number of supers on their payroll, all with different and unique powers. Together, and with a little muscle from Titan, they were able to clear enough open space to set up a small MASH camp on the open street outside the club. 

Canvases and mats, bottled water, antiseptic, sterile bandages, liquid morphine, and syringes were pulled up from under the Divide’s basement and Rivkah stomped from one side of the street to the other shouting orders for how triage was to be arranged. Who got priority. What supplies they had on hand. What they could do, and what they couldn’t. 

“When you can’t save everybody, save the ones that are worth saving!” She shouted for the whole street to hear, one arm curled under her abdomen to support her swollen pregnant belly as she marched around the MASH camp. She seemed like the kind of woman who knew how to get things done and didn’t let anything slow her down.

Magenta liked her instantly. 

Anyone she and Titan pulled out of the debris in the surrounding area, she brought to Rivkah for assessment and triage. 

She was brutal in her practicality, but not without sympathy. Magenta didn’t think the woman had any actual medical training, but she didn’t just look at a person’s wounds and deem them healthy enough to be put to work, or too injured to be worth saving. She would touch their hand, and –if they were capable of opening their eyes- look into their eyes, her own doing a funny little focusing and unfocusing thing where her pupils dilated really, really big. So big, her eyes went almost black. It unnerved Magenta so much that Titan had to explain that was the Broker using her power. 

They were empaths. After a fashion. 

They could touch a person, or meet their eyes and see into them. Their wants and desires. Hopes and dreams. Anxieties and fears. Pasts and traumas. What made a person who they were. If they were tough and resilient. Or if they were meek and wilting. If they had the steel in their core of cores to heal with the limited medical help they would receive, or if using resources on them was a waste. 

This was how the Brokers matched supers with jobs that fit them, and it was how Rivkah decided how to arrange the triage of the MASH camp. 

Magenta was impressed. 

Rivkah’s grandfather, the original Broker, sat on a tipped over mailbox, resting his arms on a silver-handled cane and watched everything unfold around him. “Something like this happened a little over twenty years ago.” He mused aloud, wheezing slightly. The quake had done no favors for his health and nerves, and the dust in the air wasn’t helping. “Faultline, if I remember. She was a real piece of work.”

He wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular and seemed content to just spout his reminiscing to the open air. He would have said more if one of the supers on his payroll hadn’t come up to him and whispered something in his ear that made the old man’s jaw drop, eyes going wide. 

He turned to face the much, much younger man. Grabbing his wrist with an old gnarled hand, he stared the young man in the eyes, his own doing that same dilation trick where the irises went almost all black. “You’re sure?”

“My brother was injured in the break-out.” Said the young man. “The pain killers are making our connection a little staticky, but yes. I’m sure.”

Overhearing this exchange but not understanding a word of it, Magenta walked over to the pair. “What is it? What’s going on?”

The old man smiled up at her, as if she were one of his own grandchildren who’d just taken a sudden interest in the family business. “Cosimo here has one of the most useful powers I’ve ever encountered. But it can’t be demonstrated in a high school gym. He and his siblings dropped out of that school of yours halfway through their freshman year.”

That wasn’t what Magenta had asked. Not even close. 

The younger man, Cosimo, offered an apologetic little grimace. “I’m one of a set of septuplets.” He explained. Seven siblings all from one birth. “Our mom was a telepath, but the only bit of that we inherited was a psychic link between ourselves. We can’t communicate with anyone else. But we can communicate with each other no matter how far the distance. Not a very overt power for a super to have.”

“But I saw the usefulness of such a… Web.” The Old Broker announced, accompanying this announcement with a little chuckle, as if congratulating himself about how clever he was. “I got them placed in jobs and positions all over the city. Hospitals, law firms, city hall… prisons. They report to Cosimo what they see and hear, and Cosimo reports to me.” The old man chuckled again. “Not a thing happens in this city that I don’t know about. Things are about to get even more exciting now. An old associate of mine has just been set free.”

Magenta raised one purple-tinted eyebrow. “What do you mean? What old associate?”

The Old Broker just continued to laugh until he started to cough. 

Cosimo gave her another sympathetic grimace. “It was a bit before my time. But he’s talking about one of his most expensive Talents. The only one to never take a codename like the rest of us supers tend to do. The only inmate of Maxville Penitentiary that needed another super to guard him. The one who took the Warden’s eye. The Beast of Solitary. Barren Battel.”

Still cough-laughing, the Old Broker gave a wistful mutter. As if remembering a bygone era. “Business took a down-turn after Battle got pinched. Every year I keep hoping that boy of his would walk through my doors…”

Unconsciously, Magenta took a step back. Barron Battle, the notorious supervillain that went one-on-one with the Commander, took a beating, then gave a beating right back. That had been locked in Solitary Confinement for the better part of ten years because he was too dangerous to allow around people… was out. Did the Commander know? Did Warren know!? Someone had to tell them!

Sprinting back across the street, Magenta ran up to her mentor and fished a hand into his over-sized pocket. 

“Whoa there, Little Miss!” The large man almost fell over trying to twist his body in a way so she wouldn’t accidentally grope at anything teenage girls were not supposed to be feeling in an older man’s pants. “That’s a personal area!”

“I need your red phone!” Magenta shouted up at him, not caring for his fragile male vanity. They could argue gender politics when there wasn’t an escaped supervillain with a grudge against the Commander stalking the already broken streets. 

“What for?” Titan demanded. 

“Someone needs to tell him!” She continued to shout.

“Who? What?” The larger man just stared down at her. From where he was standing, she was just making panicked squeaks, very much like a frightened rodent, or the guinea pig she turned into. 

Taking a deep breath, Magenta forced herself to calm down enough to get out a clear sentence. “Someone needs to tell Warren and the Commander that Barron Battle is out.”

…

The sun was high in the sky and the earth was still when Warren and the Commander finally made it down from the mountains and back to Maxville proper. The trip had been slow, and they kept having to stop every couple of miles to move fallen trees or rock slides out of the road before the car could pass. 

But, the slow pace and constant stops did give Warren plenty of time to change from his civilian clothes into his black-on-black super-suit with just a little bit of red piping. In full costume now, he looked slightly less out of place standing next to the commander. He still looked out of place. Stark black standing next to such bright white, blue, and red. But less out of place then if he were still wearing just his mask over jeans and a t-shirt. 

Maxville looked worse-off than the mountain communities of Bedlam Unincorporated. 

Wide fissures opened up in the streets, swallowing parts of buildings. Structures collapsed. Telephone poles and street lights fallen over. 

The first thing Warren did was pull out his cell phone and call his mother to make sure both she and the cat were okay. She was also Layla’s mentor. Was Layla with her when the quake started? Was Layla alright? Warren needed to know. But the call didn’t connect. He looked at the flip-phone’s screen and realized he had no service. “Cell towers must be down.”

“This was a bad one.” Steve nodded, lips pursed together in a grim frown. 

He hadn’t seen a quake this bad in over twenty years. Will wasn’t even born yet back then. Heck! He and Josie had only just started seriously dating! It was Josie’s nemesis, Faultine. Almost destroyed the whole city. They only managed to stop her with help from a number of other supers who lived in Maxville at the time. It was the biggest team-up Steve had ever been a part of. 

“What- uh, what should we do?” Warren asked. He was out of his depth here. This was something you asked your mentor for instruction on. That’s what mentors were there for. 

It took a moment for the Commander to answer. His eyes were sweeping over the city. Taking in the broken buildings, the opened up streets and exposed piping. How many people were injured in this? How many people were killed in this?

“The roads will be blocked.” He finally said. “That will make medical response teams slow, if they can arrive at all. But the hospitals will already be overfull anyway. With the phone lines down it’ll take time to organize and mobilize. There’ll be panicking, looting, and rioting.”

“So what should we do?” The boy asked again. 

Steve looked back at him. “We make our way to City Hall. Talk to whoever’s in charge. Help them get organized. Working the streets helps people on a face-to-face level, but only in small pockets. We can help more by helping the rest of the city get organized.”

Now it was Warren’s turn to stare across the Maxville cityscape. City Hall was in Downtown and they were just coming back in from the mountains –and neither of them could fly. It was going to be a long trek. 

“We clear the roads as we go.” The Commander told him. “If we see a doorway, or a window, or an exit that’s blocked, we unblocked it to make things easier for better equipped rescue teams.”

“Yes, sir!” The boy nodded, glad for an actual instruction. 

And so they went. 

If there was a large slab of fallen wall across the street, the Commander moved it with his strength. If there was a tree or telephone pole broken and collapsed in front of the main entrance of an apartment building, Warren burned it down with a controlled fire. It was slow goings, but they made their progress to Downtown. Taking the most direct route possible. 

About halfway, they passed a fire house with a street light collapsed in front of their truck bay’s roll-up door. Collapsed and dented into the door so much that it was almost penetrating through the door. 

Will was just landing right as they ran up. 

“Oh, hey.” He smiled at his dad and his best friend. 

Steve took the boy in his arms, giving him a super-strength hug. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” Will asked. He was super-strong and near invulnerable thanks to that super-strength, and could fly on top of it. If anyone was gonna survive a devastating earthquake, it would be Will Stronghold. 

“Cell towers are down.” Warren informed his friend with a silent ‘you idiot’ at the end. “I can’t reach my mom. Layla was with her.”

“Oh.” Will’s relived smile at finding his father and best friend alive and unharmed quickly melted into an expression of concern. Not everyone in their community was invulnerable like he and his dad were. Not everyone was too stubborn to die like Warren was. Without a way of contacting them, there was no way of knowing if they made it through unharmed or not. “Layla’s… Layla’s really in-tune with nature and stuff. I’m sure she knows what to do in an earthquake. And your mom can fly. I’m sure they’re fine.”

The older boy did not look convinced. 

Someone from inside the fire house banged on the corrugated metal of the roll-up door. “Hey! Can you stop talking about your girlfriend and get us some help!”

“Oh, right! Sorry!” Will was quick to apologize. “That’s why I’m here.”

He lifted the street light that had fallen across the door. 

Without it in the way anymore, Warren could see that the steel of the roll-up door was warped in such a way that –even if the power was on- it wouldn’t work properly. He lit his arms on fire and stepped forward to weld an opening in the metal. 

“Anybody inside, stand back!” He shouted. 

Folding his fire in on itself, he sharpened the burn, focusing the heat to almost razor precision to cut through the steel. Corrugated metal was a lot different than fallen tree trunks. It was non-flammable, and denser. Took longer to heat. Took longer to cut through. It was a slow process. But after a bit of focus and effort, Warren managed to cut a hole in the metal large enough for an average sized human to fit through. 

Inside were half a dozen fire fighters, already suited up in their bunk gear. Ready to rush out and save some lives. Too bad they’d spent half the day trapped in their own fire house. 

“They need to be able to get their truck out.” Will informed him. “Max General needs the help.”

He reached for the –still hot- edges of the hole Warren cut. Will was super-strong and near-invulnerable because of that strength. But near-invulnerable was not invulnerable, and because of his strength meant he was resistant to concussive or force damage. Not heat damage. Will pulled his hands away before they even touched the molten metal edges of the hole. Like dealing with his best friend sometimes, it was wiser to wait until things cooled down. 

Everyone was distracted by a ringing sound. 

Warren practically dove for his own cell. “Are the phones back up!?”

But he still had no service. 

“It’s mine.” The Commander informed them, pulling out his own red phone. “Yeah?”

Will, Warren, and the guys still standing inside the fire house stood and watched the Commander listen and nod along to whatever it was the person on the other end of the line was saying. It was a bit awkward to watch. It made the superhero seem so… normal. On the same level. Standing there, in full costume, bright colors seeming all the brighter in the sunlight, cape swaying slightly in the breeze, but nodding into a cell phone. “Uh-huh. Yeah. Wait. What!?”

Nobody knew what was said on the other end. But whoever they were, told the Commander something that made him go pale. Like, stark white. Like he’d just seen a ghost. His whole life was flashing before his eyes. The end was nye. 

Lowering the phone and stowing it back on his belt, the Commander looked back up at the boys. At his own son, and Warren, his protégé, but also the son of his greatest nemesis. 

Neither boy had ever seen Steve Stronghold look so grim. 

“Stay here.” He told them. Very firmly. Leaving no room for argument. “Get the rest of this cut off so they can get their truck out.” 

The Commander turned to leave. 

“Where are you going?” Asked Warren. 

“I can get you there faster.” Said Will. 

“No!” Steve all but snapped at his son. No. He did not want his only child anywhere near where near him at the moment. He put Battle away. It stood to reason that Battle would come looking for him for revenge. Close to him was the last place he wanted his son to be right now. His own son, or Warren. Both boys needed to stay away from Barron Battle, so both boys needed to stay away from him. “No, stay together. Buddy system. Don’t let each other out of your sight. Keep helping people, but don’t let anyone you don’t know get close to you.”

The Commander sprinted away. 

Both boys just stared after him. 

“Did- did he just tell us ‘stranger danger’?” Warren asked. Like they were twelve. What the hell? What was said to him over that call!? 

Will just shrugged. “I mean, he is my dad.” He, at least, didn’t see anything strange about what just happened. “Let’s get back to work opening that door.”

Warren fired up his hands again and went back to welding, widening the hole he already made so the truck to fit through. Will lifted the other man up so that he could make it taller too. Tall enough to get a fire engine with full ladder out. 

“Hey, any chance you’re related to Flamebird?” Asked one of the fire fighters as the boys worked. 

“She’s his mom.” Will answered. 

“They don’t need to know that!” Warren snapped at the younger man. 

“Aw, man.” Exclaimed the fire fighter as if his heart had just been broken. “Flamebird’s married! I only became a fireman because I thought I’d have a better chance of meeting her.”

“You’re not her type.” Warren informed the fire fighter without knowing anything else about the man besides the fact that he was a fire fighter and had a celebrity crush on his mother. But it was an easy assumption to make. Nobody was his mother’s type. She didn’t have a ‘type’. She had a ‘one’. 

“Too young?” Asked the fire fighter, taking his helmet off and tilting his head up to get a better look at the young heroes. And, in fact, the fire fighter was young. Mid-twenties. Not much older than Will and Warren, in fact. 

“Too nice.” Will shook his head, making an assumption. “Flamebird likes bad boys.”

“Oh my gawd! Shut-up!” Warren snarled at both of them. This was not a conversation he wanted to be –literally- in the middle of. 

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” Nodded the fire fighter, accepting this answer without much argument. After all, Son of Flamebird was dressed all in black and seemed to have a bit of a snarly and hostile attitude. Definitely the kinda kid who might have had a ‘bad boy’ for a father. He glanced behind him where an old calendar was hung on the wall. 

An out dated Superhero of the Month calendar from 1987. They were into mid-September now, but the calendar was open to the month of August. The superhero of the month being Flamebird, twenty years younger than she was now. Wearing her old costume. A long sleeve crop-top and skimpy booty shorts. She had her back arched, making her ass stick out, smiling at the camera with a mischievous grin. Any woman who posed like that had to have at least a little naughty streak. 

Warren suppressed a growl, his cheeks burning almost as much as his flames. There were old pictures like that of his mom all over the city. Out dated calendars, old magazine center-folds, posters. Flamebrid was never a big name superhero, but she was popular with a very specific niche crowd, and she knew how to play to her niche. It always made Warren uncomfortable being confronted with it. Nobody wanted to know that their mother was some other dude’s spank material. 

“So, Mr. Son-of-Flamebird-and-Some-Bad-Boy, just what kind of ‘bad boy’ managed to charm the heart of the beautiful Flamebird?” Asked the fire fighter. “Who’s your dad?”

…

There wasn’t much around the prison. The main Maxville power plant, the water treatment plant, and a couple scattered gas stations along a wide, well maintained, but rarely traveled highway. 

Battle followed the highway north, towards Maxville proper. 

South of the city, there wasn’t much development. Just the highway and a few scattered gas stations to remind a person that civilization did exist and was near. It was uncomfortably similar to Bedlam Unincorporated in that regard. Close to civilization, but removed from it. Isolated in a way. 

With the sun high in the sky and the land still, wide cracks opened up in the high way, and sinkholes opened up all across the wide landscape, the hike up the empty highway felt like a walk post-apocalypse. Wide, empty land. Signs of human development, but not a single actual person in sight. 

Unzipping his jumpsuit to the hips, Battle tied the sleeves around his waist. Max Sec jump suits were kaki, and he wore a cheap, cost effective, prison issued, plain white t-shirt underneath. At first glance, he shouldn’t look like someone who’d just escaped from prison. He shouldn’t look like a criminal. Just a guy in kakis walking along an abandoned stretch of highway. 

That was, until Battle caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the chrome siding of the next gas station sign he passed. 

His clothing might look unassuming enough with the jumpsuit unzipped, the prison name on the back and his prisoner number on the front folded over and hidden. But he himself did not look quite so neutral and non-descript. It had been ten years and if they weren’t willing to let him have a pencil for fear of it being used as a weapon, they sure as hell never gave him a razor! 

Battle paused to stare at his reflection. 

Ten years. 

His hair was long, sure. He tied it in on itself to keep it out of his face, twisting the curls into a knot at the base of his neck. But the beard! The beard was so long! He didn’t realize just how long it was until he saw himself reflected in the light of day. In the dimly lit and partially steamed over prison showers, the long hair and beard didn’t seem all that out of place. Just a circumstance of prison hygiene. But outside, in the sun, back in the world… Battle definitely, definitely looked like an escaped convict. 

The gas station was empty. Not even an abandoned car to imply that it was ever even staffed in the first place. 

Walking right up to the door, Battle tried to pull it open first. Like a civilized person capable of using doors. But quickly found the store to be locked. 

So, he put his foot through it instead. Shattering the plexyglass. 

He rolled up his pant leg to pull out the shards of glass in his skin before the wounds could heal and seal the glass in. Nothing was more annoying than having to cut yourself back open to get out uncomfortably placed shrapnel. 

Alone in the gas station convince store, Battle grabbed a package of razors, a pair of scissors, and a can of shaving cream. There was no running water in the bathroom, so he took bottles of water too. Then set to work making himself look at least somewhat presentable. 

Cutting the knot out of his hair, and actually trimming it –not too short, Mara liked to pull on it- shaving his beard, washing his face. When Battle was done, his reflection looked more like the man he remembered. Dark curls framing a square face. Deep set brown eyes behind wide-framed glasses. A slightly cleft chin, smooth and unblemished, without a single shaving cut –because they’d all already healed. He looked older, even to his own eyes. But he looked like himself again. 

Battle drank what was left in the open bottle of water he used to rinse off with, and grabbed a second bottle. He hadn’t had anything to drink since his dinner the night before. Same with anything to eat, and he munched on potato chips and meat sticks. Not exactly the healthiest fair, but what else could one expect from a gas station convenience store. 

He sat on the counter and pulled out several of the maps that were offered. Tourist maps highlighting the camp grounds and hiking trails around Maxville, historic road maps taking people on a tour of the journey the first settlers of Maxville took, celebrity and super maps showing where all the big news battles with big name heroes happened. Finally, Battle pulled out one that was a normal city map. He withdrew Warren’s letter and flipped the envelope over to once again read the return address with its unfamiliar zip code. It was still Maxville, so it should be on the map. 

Chewing on his meat stick, Battle unfolded the paper to its full size. Peering from district to district. 

It was as he was searching the map that another escapee barged into the convenience store. Darting in through the broken glass door Battle ‘opened’ for them. Wearing the bright orange jumpsuit of Gen Pop, but with the sleeves cut off. 

“Has a man-hunt already mobilized?” Battled asked, unconcerned. Any law enforcement officer, be they prison guard, police, state trooper, or other, would still be picking themselves up off the ground. It would take them another few hours to get out there to reclaim their lost prisoners. Battle wasn’t worried. 

The other man spun around startled. He hadn’t noticed Battle when he first came in to spite the fact that he was sitting right there on the counter. Not very observant. Not the type of guy that would stay out and on the run for long. Battle gave him until the end of the day. Maybe the next day if the cops were really, really slow. 

Mr. Gen Pop looked Battle up and down. Noting that he wore the kaki of Maximum Security. “You a perv, or just a dirty pig?”

“Neither.” Battle finished off the meat stick he was eating and selected another. “Supervillain.”

The other man scoffed. “Sure.” 

Sitting on the counter, his legs crossed under him, freshly shaved, curls trimmed and combed, wearing his glasses, Barron Battle did not look the least bit intimidating. He just looked like a relatively fit guy who just happened to be wearing a prison jumpsuit from the Maximum Security block. A pervert or a dirty cop, not a hardened criminal. 

Battle shrugged. This guy’s opinion of him was insignificant. It didn’t matter. What did matter was figuring out where the hell in the city Mara had moved to. Where the hell in the now cracked and broken Maxville were his wife and son? A thought occurring to him, Battle looked back up at the guy from Gen Pop. “Hey, you from Maxville?”

“Yeah… Why?” He crossed his arms over his chest. He still wasn’t sure this guy wasn’t a dirty cop and he had no intension of helping a pig. 

Battle held up Warren’s letter. “You know where this is?”

Stepping closer, Mr. Gen Pop peered at the return address. “Nah, man, I never got outta South Side before I got my bid.” 

Battle was visibly disappointed. 

The other man was going to leave it at that, until he caught a glimpse of the name the letter was addressed to. Above the prison’s address and the recipient’s prisoner number, the sender had lovingly written out their name too. ‘Barron Battle’. Mr. Gen Pop looked back up at his face again. Taking a closer look. He’d never seen the Beast Below before. The Monster of Solitary. Battle was barricaded down in the dungeon before he started his dime. But he’d heard stories. 

A super that went toe-to-toe, head-to-head against the Commander. That got beat down, got back up, and beat the Commander right back. Gave as good as he got. Pushed the Commander to his limit. Almost killed him. It was rumored that the only way the Commander could defeat Barron Battle was to kill him, but the bastard was so evil he couldn’t die. That hell spat him back out again. Gen Pop looked at his face. Freshly shaved, but devoid of any shaving cuts. Absent of any scars at all. Every criminal had scars. Hell! Most normal people at least had acne scars. But this guy’s face was smooth, clear, and blemish free. Like he’d been gone over by a photographer’s airbrush. Except he wasn’t a photograph. He was a real fucking person. Made of flesh. Staring at Mr. Gen Pop.

Gen Pop backed up. Backed up fast. “You- you’re- you really are a supervillain?” 

Battle shrugged again. “That’s what they called me when they gave me my Buck Rogers Time.”

“I don’ want no trouble.” Gen Pop continued to back up. “I ain’t got no powers and I ain’t meanin’ to get in no super’s way. You wanna go after the Commander –for revenge, or whatever- you do you, dawg.”

Slipping his son’s letter back in the pocket of his jumpsuit, Battle hopped off the counter and scoffed. “That idiot isn’t even in my top five of people I wanna see right now.”

Gen Pop backed up some more when Battle passed by him to grab another bottle of water. Meat sticks were salty, and he had, like five of them. 

“Uh, uh, yeah. After a quake like that I wanna see my aunty. Fuck the snitch that got me pinched!”

Battle thought he might suggest to the other man to pay more attention to his surroundings when entering unfamiliar ground, to sweep a room before letting his guard down, and for the fuck’s sake, do something about that bright orange suit! It was pretty noticeable. But he didn’t. He didn’t owe this guy anything, and whatever cops that were chasing this guy were cops that weren’t chasing Battle. 

“Best of luck.” Battle said instead. 

Water bottle in one hand, the other hand in his pocket making sure his son’s letter was still there, he stepped through the broken door. He took too long at this stop as it was. He needed to keep moving. If he was moving he was less likely to be caught. If he wasn’t caught, then he could get to see his family. 

All he had to do was figure out where they were.


	7. What Kind of Person

Josie was already waiting at City Hall when Steve finally arrived. She ran to her husband, as if to hug him, but instead of wrapping her arms about him and pulling in close, she grabbed his shoulders instead. “Have you see Will!?”

“Oh. Yeah, he’s fine.” Steve assured her. It hadn’t occurred to him that with the cell towers down, they would have no way of contacting their son. They both had red phones, and red phones always worked. But Will didn’t have a red phone. He hadn’t earned one yet. He just had a civilian cell. Like Warren, he was cut off. Josie didn’t know where he was or if he was safe. But Steve could reassure her. “He’s helping people. I left him with Warren.”

“With Warren?” Josie asked, far less panicked now, but not yet truly ‘calm’. “Where’s his mentor?”

Steve paused. It hadn’t even occurred to him to ask where his son’s mentor was or why he wasn’t with her. Steve just assumed it was because Will could fly and Bedrock couldn’t. Will could get to people faster than Bedrock could. “I…” Steve faltered under his wife’s critical gaze. She always had been the brains in their marriage. “I didn’t ask.”

Josie was giving him The Look. An expression of disappointed authority, mixed with a healthy dollop of ‘you should know better’. Will was eighteen and –technically- didn’t need their permission to enroll in the intern program. But not all the kids were eighteen. It might be their senior year, but some of them were still only seventeen. Minors. Their parents trusted the mentors of the Sky High internship program to protect their kids while they got superhero experience. No child should be in costume but without their mentor. They should not be unaccompanied. …Unless something terrible happened to the mentor. Did they need to arrange some kind of aid for Bedrock? Steve should have asked. 

But she could yell at him about it later. Right now, Steve needed a ride out to Max Pen. He needed to get out to the prison fast. Before Barron Battle could get too far. Before Barron Battle could get back to the city –or to Warren. “Josie, you need to take me to-“

“Jetstream! Commander!” The deputy-Mayor came running up to them. The deputy-Mayor, not the actual Mayor. She was wearing an Emergency Response Team windbreaker over a set of matched pajamas and sneakers. She looked like she’d just rolled out of bed, and in fact, she probably had. Holding a radio in one hand and the city’s disaster plan binder in the other arm. She marched up to them, page-boy haircut uncombed and messy. “Thank goodness you’re here!”

Both heroes turned to her. 

She had the Police Commissioner and Fire Chief hot on her heels.

“I’ve got panic all over the city!” She announced. “My hospitals are full, I’ve got gas leaks, water main and sewage breaks, fires and flooding, building and street collapses. Please, tell me some good news!”

Steve’s mouth turned down in a grim frown. He was not going to give the deputy-Mayor the good news she wanted to hear. “The quake also caused a breakout at Max Pen.” He announced. “In addition to everything that’s already going on, Maxville is about to be flooded with criminals, both mundane and super.”

“We’ve already got looting starting in South Side and West End.” Growled the Police Commissioner. She bit her thumb with anxiety. There was already violence in the streets and reintroducing convicts that had been removed from society for who knows how long back into the population would just exasperate things. “Max Pen is along the 404, if they follow the highway they’ll hit South Side first.”

The deputy-Mayor turned to the other woman. “Can we raise Max Pen on the radio? We need to know the situation.” To the Commander she asked, “How do you know the quake caused a breakout?”

“Super sources.” Steve answered, without actually giving an answer. “We need to get out there now. Max Pen isn’t just bank robbers and mob thugs.” He reminded the city officials. “It’s also where we hold our super-criminals too.” 

Not just criminals that had been removed from society for years, but criminals that had been removed from society for years with super powers. The deputy-Mayor visibly paled. She croaked before being able to form a coherent sentence. “W-we’ll need your input in how to mobilize when you get back.” She cleared her throat. “Can you tell me what other supers are in the city at the moment and available to help?”

“Titan has the most seniority.” Said the Commander. 

“Comet is retired but she’s the better organizer.” Jetstream reminded her husband. Lynda Powers wasn’t just a high school principal. She used to be a superhero as famous and well know as they were, but unlike them, actually had a talent for the minutia of administrative work. “You can reach all of them from the red phone in the Mayor’s office. As deputy-Mayor, I assume you have access.”

“I do.” She nodded. 

Steve nodded. “You can contact us through it too.”

He turned to his wife. With a grim nod, Josie picked him up by the shoulders and together they flew out of town. 

The city looked different from the air. Still bad, but bad in a different way. On street-level you could see the people standing outside their broken homes, holding their pets or their children. You could hear them crying, or muttering between themselves what was going to happen now? What were they going to do? They could look the Commander in the eyes and demand those same questions on him. What was he going to do? He was their hero. How was he going to fix this?

From the air, the human element shrank away, was harder to see. Easier to compartmentalize and insulate yourself from. But, from the air, one could see farther. How wide the damage was. Buildings the city was so confident in were listing to one side or the other, long fissures opened up in the streets, parts of buildings collapsed into sinkholes. It was bad. The word ‘disaster’ just didn’t seem strong enough. ‘Cataclysm’ was more appropriate. 

Outside Maxville, along the 404 highway, there was far less carnage only because there was less urban development to destroy. There were still fissures cutting through the road, and sinkholes in the landscape. Fallen trees, and collapsed telephone poles. But it looked like less destruction because there was less to destroy. 

“Max Pen is where we sent Barron.” Josie said as they were flying over the highway. 

“Titan called me and told me that the Web told him Barron escaped.” Steve informed her. “Apparently, they have a Thread at the prison.”

“I wasn’t aware Titan associated with the Web.” Josie did not sound pleased. 

The Web was a group of psychically-linked supers who worked for the Broker. The Strongholds did not care for the Broker. He claimed to be a neutral party between heroes and villains, but just how trustworthy could a person who knowingly and willingly associated with supervillains be? Hell! Josie had words to say when she found out the school had approved Mara Peace as a mentor for the kids. If her family wasn’t going to trust a business man who associated with villains, then Josie sure as heck wasn’t going to trust a- a villain-lover! 

“He doesn’t.” Steve informed her. “He and Magenta just happened to be near Divide when the quake happened. Magenta overheard one of the Threads telling the Broker.”

Josie pursed her lips. “I don’t doubt Magenta’s sincerity. But how can we be sure the whole conversation wasn’t staged in an attempt to get us out of the city while the villains seize the situation and take over?”

Steve shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Barron’s too dangerous for me not to look into this.” 

“He can’t be out, Steve.” Josie insisted, a tightness in her voice. “He just- he just can’t! You remember what we had to do to take him down. We- we broke The Rule, Steve. I’ve never broken The Rule before.”

To spite the gravity of the situation, Steve couldn’t help the small bark of a dark laugh that rose in his throat. “Barron would say we ‘bent it’.”

…

_With one hit, the Commander sent Battle careening through two walls and half of a pillar. For any normal person, that would have been more than enough to kill them. But Battle just picked himself off the broken pillar, brushed debris off his black leather costume, and walked back out to face the Commander with a grunt._

_Battle had always been that way. Since high school. He didn’t know when he should just stay down. When it was better to just give up. Call it a day and pack it in. Battle wasn’t as strong as the Commander, but what he lacked in physical strength, he more than made up for in stubbornness and sheer force of will._

_When the Commander threw him into a pillar, Battle just lifted the broken pillar, hoisting it up above his head, and threw it at the Commander._

_The Commander was just a little slow to react. The large, blunt, projectile hit him square in the chest and then it was the Commander’s turn to go careening through layers of drywall. Let it never be said that Barron Battle didn’t give as good as he got._

_Shoving the piece of pillar off himself, the Commander tried pushing himself back to his feet, but was quickly pinned back down by Battle’s foot kicking him hard in the chest, right over where the pillar hit him. It knocked the wind out of him and he heard a soft crack. One of his ribs probably. The Commander was near-invulnerable thanks to his strength, but near-invulnerable wasn’t the same as being actually invulnerable, and Barron Battle could be an unstoppable force sometimes._

_Resting almost all his weight on the foot on the Commander’s chest, Battle bent down, wrapping both hands around the other man’s throat. There was murder in his deep brown eyes. There wasn’t a single doubt in the Commander’s mind that Barron meant to kill him in that moment._

_He probably would have too._

_If there hadn’t been a sonic boom, of something traveling so fast it broke the sound barrier, and a blur of white, blue, and red barreling into Battle. The other man was thrown off and the Commander could breath again. He gasped for air and as his chest expanded with every intake of breath he felt a sharp pain. Yup. Definitely a broken rib. Working through the pain, the Commander finally pushed himself back to his feet and looked up at his savior._

_Still floating in mid-air where she had kicked Battle off her husband, was Jetstream. In full costume, cape wafting in the breeze._

_“I thought you didn’t take jobs in Maxville, Barron!” She shouted at him._

_Battle climbed out from yet another hole in the wall created from his body being thrown through it. His face was all scrapped and cut up from her heel, blood dripping down over one eye. It was the most unnerving thing to see his wounds heal right before her eyes. The cuts closing before the blood even dried._

_“Everybody’s got their price, Josie.” He growled back at her._

_He was outnumbered, two against one now, the Commander was stronger than him and Jetstream could fly. They had the advantages and all Battle had was his stubbornness and disturbingly fast healing ability. A wiser villain would have given up. Run away cackling into the sunset and vowing they hadn’t seen the last of him. But Barron Battle wasn’t that kind of villain. In fact, the Commander was pretty sure he’d never heard Battle cackle once in his whole life._

_Picking up a chunk of broken wall, Battle lobbed it at Jetstream. It wasn’t anywhere near as big as the pillar he’d thrown at the Commander just a few minutes prior. It was a piece of cinder block about as big as Josie’s head. She dodged it easily. Ducking under the projectile as it flew impotently over her head._

_Then Battle’s hand closed around her ankle and she realized his intent was never to hit her with a freaking rock! Eyes going wide, Jetstream realized her mistake all too late._

_Swinging her around, Battle threw Jetstream through the very same man-shaped hole in the wall he’d just climbed out of. With nobody between him and the Commander again, Battle stalked towards the other man._

_Ignoring the pain in his ribs, the Commander assumed a defensive stance. His hand-to-hand combat was never as good as his wife’s. He never really had the need to perfect a technique, always relying on physical strength to overpower his opponents rather than actual skill. But Battle’s sheer force of will rendered that strength null and void. They were evenly matched somehow, and the Commander’s deficiency in hand-to-hand combat placed him at a disadvantage._

_Battle landed a punch to the Commander’s side and both men heard the unnervingly loud pop of another rib breaking. The Commander fell backwards onto the broken debris of their battlefield._

_Teeth clenched, hissing through pain that he was not accustomed to having to suffer, the hero skittered back on the heels of his hands, trying to crawl away from the monster looming over him. Hands sliding over loose chunks of cinderblock and drywall, he threw what he could at Battle, already knowing that a few little rocks wouldn’t slow him down._

_Battle pounced on him. Actually being so melodramatic as to jump into the air before coming down on the other man._

_The Commander didn’t think, but just grabbed for the first thing his hand touched to place between himself and his would-be murderer._

_A snapped segment of metal rebar. Black iron and spiraled edges. The tip slightly bent right before the break, making it a sort of sharpened hook. The Commander held it over his chest and closed his eyes as Battle came down on him._

_The rebar jerked in his hands. Battle made an oddly wet gasp of exclamation. The Commander felt the weight of the other man over him, but no attack came. Then warm fluid dripped over his hands and he had to open his eyes._

_Battle’s brown eyes stared back at him. Wide, and shocked, and… fading._

_It was then that the Commander realized what he’d done. He hadn’t meant to. Really. He didn’t do that sort of thing. He wasn’t that kind of person. They had a Rule about that!_

_The rebar had impaled Barron Battle right through the chest. Almost dead-center. Maybe a little to the left of that ridiculous swords crossed over a round shield symbol that did not match the rest of his aesthetic._

_Hands bloody, front of his uniform bloody, the Commander dropped the rebar he was still holding and rolled Battle’s body off him._

_The Commander had so much adrenaline coursing through him now, he barely noticed the pain all over his chest when he pushed himself to his feet._

_The rebar was still sticking out of Battle’s chest._

_“Steve…”_

_He heard Josie’s voice, like a horrified whisper. Strangely quiet. Muffled, almost. Like she had her hands over her mouth. Maybe she did. The Commander couldn’t bring himself to lift his head to look at her. He’d never killed anyone before. He didn’t think he ever would. There was a Rule. What kind of person was he?_

_“Steve… what did you do!?”_

_It was the abject horror in his wife’s voice that made him finally snap his head up. Almost as if waking up from a trance. Battle’s eyes were still open. Staring at him. Accusing him._

_“I- I had to, Josie.” He told her, voice cracking. “I don’t- I didn’t mean- It just happened. But he wouldn’t stop. I had to-“_

_The Commander cut himself of. He had no idea what he was supposed to say and, in fact, it was difficult to string words together at the moment. He’d just killed a person. And he had a Rule! There was a Rule! …and he just… broke it._

_Jetstream walked up and pulled the rebar out of Battle’s chest. It had sunk deep. Almost half the shaft was covered in blood._

_“I…” It seemed she was also struggling to find words. “I don’t know… I’ve never- Steve, what do we do?”_

_But the Commander was not in a state of mind of think at the moment. He was just staring at Battle’s open eyes. Still wide with shock at what had just happened. Wide and brown. Such a deep, deep brown. Steve couldn’t take his eyes off them. He’d known Barron since high school, since they were kids! But he never noticed before just how rich in color the other man’s eyes were._

_He stood there, holding his mid-section and staring at Battle._

_Then the corps’ eyes moved and the Commander yelped. “What the f-“ he exclaimed an expletive a hero of Truth, Justice, and Liberty was not supposed to use._

_The body gasped, as if trying to refill lungs that had been emptied after its last breath. Eyes blinking. Battle tried to push himself up._

_Josie also screamed. Still holding the already bloody rebar in her hand, she stabbed it back into the moving body. Again, and again, and again. Six times she stabbed Barron Battle in the chest. Until she exhausted herself. The rebar clattered to the floor impotently as she began to cry._

_“I- I killed him!” She put her face in her hands. She also had a Rule._

_What kind of person was she?_

_One arm still cradling his broken ribs, Steve wrapped his other arm around her. She turned around and cried into his shoulder._

_Then Barron Battle coughed and tried to get up again._

…

The sky was so clear and blue, not a cloud to be seen. It was impossible for the small speck of blue, white, and red flying high in the sky to go unnoticed. 

Battle didn’t pause to squint up at Jetstream and the Commander. He didn’t stop to tilt his head up to get a beter look at the pair that had sent him to prison in the first place. He saw his enemies approaching, recognized that they had the advantage in this situation, and dove off the road and into the nearest fissure. Battle pressed his back against the soft dirt of the shadowed side, hoping they hadn’t seen him yet. As an extra precaution, he took his glasses off too just in case the sun might shine off the lenses or the wire frames and draw their attention to his hiding place. 

He’d just escaped and Battle was not keen on going back just yet. (Not that he was particularly keen on going back at all, but options were kinda up in the air at the moment.) 

Squinting up at the blue sky Battle watched the blurred dot, that had previously been distinct as two people, zoom over him. He did not put his glasses back on immediately after they passed even if it would have made seeing them easier. He was taking no chances with the Commander. Battle strained his eye trying to see them as they shrunk in the distance. He waited until they disappeared from his poor sight before putting his glasses back on, then waited again just to make sure they weren’t going to turn around and come back. 

When he was sure they hadn’t seen him and nobody was about to drop out of the sky on top of him, Battle climbed out of the fissure. 

He brushed dirt off himself and lamented that his white t-shirt showed every smudge of where he hid. 

Battle cast one more cautious glance back the way he’d come, looking to the air just to reassure himself that the Strongholds had, indeed, missed him and were not about to come careening back through the air. Then he turned back to the city. He was close enough to see it now. 

Maxville, rising up at the end of the empty highway. Gray concrete, tinted windows, and industrial steel. The slums of South Side. Where the yards were fenced in, the windows had bars, the cops rarely stopped, but when they did, kids got shot and already hand-cuffed men got the shit beaten out of them. A quarter of the inmates of Max Pen came from South Side, both supers and mundanes alike. There wasn’t much opportunity for a person born in this part of town, kids were steered into crime early and as a means of survival, not out of any moral or amoral considerations. 

Battle strolled through the open street, bold as he pleased. Not caring if anyone saw him. They all had other problems to deal with, it seemed. The gated fronts or barred windows of stores were bent and smashed open. Not damage from the quake, damage done by human hands. Grocery stores and pharmacies broken into. Shelves emptied of bottled water and non-perishable food, anti-septic, bandages, and pain killers. All the things people needed after a disaster. Also ATMs smashed open and cash gone. Less of a necessity, but still something of value that people might not have a lot of. Idly, Battle hoped Mara remembered to take the cash he stowed in the wall safe in his condo before she moved out.

As Battle was passing a gated apartment complex, he noted that the quake had collapsed part of the gate, its pointed spikes impaling the mailboxes just inside. Pausing, he grabbed one of the exposed letters to read the zip code. 

It was not the same as the one on Warren and Mara’s return address. So, she hadn’t relocated them to South Side. Battle would be lying if he didn’t admit he was a little relieved. He used to own a condo in the Spear. If his family had to relocate, they deserved to live in a decent part of town. Valor Heights, maybe. Valor Heights was nice. Suburban, decently sized properties, spacious front yards, fancy houses… Battle and Mara actually looked at properties there when they were pregnant with Warren. 

But the Spear was in the middle of the city. It was closer to Mara’s day job, and in the thick of superhero activity. It was also three blocks down from Divide where Battle received his missions and picked up his payments. He could literally walk to ‘work’. So, they stayed at the Spear in Downtown. But damn if he didn’t like a lot of houses in Valor Heights. 

Slowly, Battle made his way through South Side, heading for down town.

He didn’t know where in this damn city his wife and son were. But Avraham Wechsler, the Broker, would. The Broker knew everyone, and through everyone he knew everything. Ave would know where to find Mara. He might even be persuaded to tell Battle for free, for old times’ sake. 

Battle would get to Downtown. Then to Divide. Then, goodness willing, Ave would still be alive and hadn’t keeled over in the decade Battle was locked up, and would tell him where Mara and Warren had moved to. And if it turned out that Ave had decided to pass away while Battle was locked up, then he’d just have to haggle with whoever took over the organization after him. Whoever the new Broker was. 

But, one way or another, someone was going to tell Battle how the hell to get to the address on his son’s letter. 

…

In the light of day, with the earth still, it was so much more jarring to see what Flamebird did to the North Hills above Max Adj. Rising up behind the houses, dark black, but not like the charred remains of a hill fire. This was a blackened landscape that shined in the sunlight. Reflecting the light like glass. 

Layla didn’t know what to think.

She stood under a canopy of vines she created to keep streetlamps and trees from falling during the shaking, in the middle of the open street that was covered in human waste from ruptured sewage pipes. All around her people were moving and talking. Trying to pick up pieces of their homes and lives. But all Layla could do was stare up at the sheer level of destruction her own mentor had wrought on the landscape. 

True, it was done to protect a city full of people. 

But it also glassed the land. Made it in hospitable. Plants wouldn’t grow on it after this. Animals wouldn’t find shelter or food. Sure, Maxville Adjacent was saved. But it was exchanging one type of harm for a different type of harm. Layla wasn’t sure she would have made the same decision. This was a dilemma they hadn’t covered in school. 

Someone was shouting. Layla didn’t realize it was at her until the boy with the broken leg came up and grabbed her hand. 

“Flamebird wants you to move, Green Lady.” The boy told her, trying to pull her over to the sidewalk on his uneven and unbalanced legs. 

Layla allowed herself to be pulled off the shit-covered street, helping to support the boy whom was still using only one crutch. 

Once they were clear of the asphalt, Flamebird landed on the street. When the sewer pipes broke, they spilled urine and feces all over the streets. The day’s sun dried off some of the foul fluids, but the solid waste remained. And in the heat of the day, it stank powerfully. She toed at some of the larger chunks with her boot. 

Brushing a lock of her short crimson hair behind one ear. Flamebird knelt down and placed one gloved hand to the street. 

Even from the sidewalk, Layla could feel the heat rumble up from the ground as her mentor super-heated the asphalt. Extreme heat was a sterilizer. It burned away and killed bacteria. As the street temperature rose, it ignited the methane of the feces, lighting the whole road on fire. The first real –live- fire Layla had seen her mentor create. Burning blue, on account of the methane. 

Flamebird looked strangely out of place clad in so much yellow and orange, standing amidst a small sea of sapphire and indigo flame. Warren’s flames were always yellow or red. It occurred to Layla then that this fire wasn’t technically her mentor’s own construct, but just a byproduct of the heat she used. It wasn’t her own fire. Layla still hadn’t seen Mara Peace make her own fire. 

When the blue flames subsided, the methane burnt off and spent, the street was dry and there was nothing left of the feces that had covered it but clumps of flaky dust. 

Standing again, Flamebird peeled off the glove that touched the soiled street. Holding it between two fingers. Layla watched the heat rise off her arm in waves as the glove melted. Dripping into a yellow puddle on the asphalt. Layla understood. She kinda wanted to ask her mentor to burn her shoes for her too. 

Only wearing one glove now, Flamebird crossed the street to Layla. Her shoulders were slumped, her posture drooping. The mask hid it on her face, but it was plane to read in the rest of her body. Mara Peace was exhausted. It was then that Layla remembered that neither of them had gotten any sleep all night. Layla hadn’t gotten any rest since she woke up for school the previous day. She could only imagine it was the same for her mentor, and Mara wasn’t as young and resilient as she was. 

Flamebird placed her ungloved hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I’ll take you home now.” 

It was then that Layla remembered they had been talking about taking her home, and how parents worried, right before the quake started. Mara was probably worried about Warren and didn’t want her underfoot while she was looking for her son. Nodding, Layla let the older woman lift her up into the air. 

From the air, she could see her work of the previous night from an entirely different angle. From above, one couldn’t really see the broken streets, ruptured pipes, or cracked buildings. Everything was covered in a layer of dark green vines. She meant them to lash down things from falling on people or homes. Layla hadn’t realized just how thickly she’d laid on the foliage. From above it looked like a small jungle had sprung up in the middle of Max Adj. It was almost pretty. If Layla didn’t know that just under that canopy of leafy vines there were people without clean water or solid roofs, she might have liked it. 

The rest of the city, however, was not as attractive. 

“I’ve never been in an earthquake that bad.” Layla shouted over the wind. 

“It’s a good thing Maxville isn’t a coastal city.” Mara informed her. “Otherwise, we’d have even more to deal with.”

The younger woman nodded, understanding. Earthquakes that started out at sea caused tsunami, flooding. Thank goodness for small favors, she supposed. 

Looking back over her mentor’s shoulder, Layla peered at the North Hills shrinking in the distance. Black against the landscape. Shining in the sun. The obsidian surface reflecting the light. They were Glass Hills now. 

“Did you have to destroy the land?” She asked after a pause. They had just regrown that hill together the previous day. 

Taking her eyes off where they were flying, Flamebird looked at the younger woman. It was hard to read her expression with the mask on, but all her gentle smiles and reassuring grins were gone. Mara looked tired. Browbeaten and annoyed. “How would you have stopped a landslide?”

“I…” Layla hesitated, pursing her lips in thought. “More trees?” Tall, thick trees. With deep roots that sank into the hills and held the land in place. 

Flamebird only shook her head. “That would have worked if we grew them before the quake. After the landslide already started any trees you grew would just have been mowed down.”

Layla did not agree, but she also didn’t have the older woman’s experience. That being said, she was also not in the habit of simply conceding a point she felt strongly about just because she was young and inexperienced. “But things live in those hills! Not just the bushes and the trees, but the things that live in the trees. The birds and squirrels, rabbits and deer, the hill cats. You just made them all homeless!”

“And if I didn’t, everyone in Max Adj would be just as homeless –or dead.” The older woman informed her in a tone of finality. 

“So, human life has a higher value to you than natural life?” Layla demanded, refusing to let the point drop. 

“Human life is natural life.” Mara reminded her. She landed on a listing rooftop not far from down town. “But since you choose not to understand that, this seems like a good opportunity for me to do some actual mentoring.” 

The roof they stood on felt weak under Layla’s feet and she tried to move as little as possible after Flamebird let go of her, for fear of causing a collapse. “What do you mean, ‘actual mentoring’?” She asked. “Isn’t what we’ve been doing, actual mentoring?”

“Learning by doing, yes, that’s an important part of mentoring.” Flamebird nodded. “But so is imparting wisdom and knowledge. I asked you what you would have done instead and you gave your answer. You weren’t sure, but you give it. So, let’s say that’s what we did. I didn’t glass the hills, I let you grow your trees. Let’s say they worked. Fine. Congratulations. You saved everyone. A job well done. But what if it didn’t work. The land slides over your trees. It buries people’s houses. It buries people alive. Homes are lost. Lives are lost. And you –as the Hero- have to look the survivors in the eyes when they ask you why you didn’t save them.”

“I don’t-“ Layla began an argument, then quickly realized she had no idea what to say. Just that what Mara said offended her. 

Mara Peace seemed so kind and caring the previous two days. She appeared to think about things. Not just about the people of Max Adj, but of the hills above them. Now she was saying that those same hills held no value when weighed next to human life. They weighed the same in Layla’s mind. 

“There has to be a way to save both.” Layla insisted. 

There was a pregnant pause in which the older woman just glared at her mentee. Then Mara smiled, the first smile Layla had seen on her face all day. But her usual gentle smile, or good natured grin. This one was… bitter, in some way. Layla wished she could see the upper half of the woman’s face. See her full expression and get a better gauge of her feelings. 

“Tell me,” said Mara, “have you heard of something called the Trolley Problem?”

Layla opened her mouth to answer before she realized she actually didn’t know what the other woman was talking about. “Um… no?”

“I didn’t think so.” Nodded the older woman. “They don’t teach moral philosophy at Sky High. They don’t like the idea that young heroes might question their doctrine of absolute right and wrong.” 

Did she sound bitter when she said that? Layla thought she sounded bitter. 

“The Trolley Problem,” Mara continued, “is a thought experiment meant to teach people to examine their own ethics. Imagine you’re on a trolley and the breaks are out. You’re unable to stop it. But you can still control the track switches. You’re approaching a switch in the tracks, but there are people on both rails. On one side, are five people. On the other, is only one person. There are variations, of course. Sometimes it’s not a trolley, sometimes it’s a bus, or a train, or a car. Sometimes someone you know is on the tracks. And so on. The point it, what do you choose? Kill one person to save five, or kill five people to save the one?”

“There has to be a way to save both!” Layla insisted. 

“That’s not one of the options.” The older woman informed her. “You have to make a decision. If you don’t decide by the time you reach the switch, the trolley jumps the tracks and kills everyone. So, what do you do? Kill one person and save five, glass one hill and save a town? Or stand there and do nothing and let everybody die, let both the hills slide down destroying both the ecosystem and the town?”

Layla pursed her lips. She did not like this way of thinking Mara Peace was trying to teach her. She had been asking herself for several days now just what kind of superhero –just what kind of woman- would take a supervillain for a lover. Layla was starting to get an idea. 

Before she was even aware that she’d made the decision, Layla found herself asking a question. “What did you talk about with Mr. Battle?”

“What?” 

She didn’t have to see the older woman’s eyes. Layla could hear her blinking behind her mask, it was apparent in her voice. Layla startled her with the question. Almost as if no one had ever asked Mara that before. As if no one had taken an interest in her relationship with her lover and the father of her child. 

“When you were finished, um…” Layla felt her cheeks flush under her hood. “…when you were done making Warren, what did you talk about? I assume you talked. My parents talk before they go to bed. What were your conversations like?”

Mara just continued to stare at her. 

The only sound on the roof was the breeze rustling the dust. 

For a moment, Layla thought her mentor wasn’t going to answer. It wasn’t like she was obligated to disclose the intimate secrets of her love affair with a girl that was young enough to be her daughter. It wasn’t something Layla needed to know for her internship, and frankly, it wasn’t really her business either. She was Warren’s friend. That did not give her entitlement to insert herself into his parents’ privacy. 

Layla wondered if she should apologize and take back the question. It really wasn’t any of her business. …But she also really wanted to know. What kind of person was Warren’s supervillain father? What kind of relationship did his hero mother and villain father have?

Layla wasn’t sure how long the silence dragged on between them. 

Only that it was broken when Flamebird’s red phone began to ring. 

“Who is this?” She demanded into the receiver. “No one calls me.” She said that last line in a way that made it sound like ‘No one wants me anymore’.

Mara listened to whatever it was the person on the other end was telling her. Then she flipped the phone shut again and stowed it back on her belt. She looked back at Layla. “Well, it looks like I won’t be taking you home after all. We have a meeting to attend at City Hall.”

The older woman picked Layla back up and then they were back in the air, and Layla never got an answer to her question. What did Mara Peace and Barron Battle talk about? What was their relationship like?


	8. Moving Pieces

Will pulled a car out of a wall, a few red bricks falling out of place as he did so. The driver’s head flopped limply on his neck as the vehicle moved. Will chanced a glance at his friend. “Is he…?”

Pulling one of his black gloves off, Warren melted the car window with his fire enough to reach a hand in and press two fingers to the side of the man’s neck. Adjusting his angle, feeling for a jugular vein. Warren eventually had to pull his hand away. He slipped the glove back on, shaking his head. “Sorry. He’s gone.” 

They couldn’t save every mundane in the city. After a quake like this, there were bound to be casualties. They would probably be finding more casualties every day as the city dug out or repaired collapsed buildings, and streets, and over-passes. This was the uncomfortable part of hero work. The part no one really liked to talk about. The part they only briefly glanced over in school. Sometimes you can’t save everybody. Sometimes you just have to do the best you can and not sweat the little things –the ‘little things’ being human life. 

Wait, did they teach them that in school? 

Surely, no teacher in Sky High would ever be so callous as to refer to mundanes, the powerless, average, normal citizens of the world as ‘the little things’. So where did Warren hear…?

…

_It was a funeral for the cat. Ember. His mother’s bright orange tabby._

_Mara lovingly packed the cat into a shoe box, one of the big ones her boots came in. She filled it with catnip, some of Ember’s favorite toys, and his cat bed. She said some tender words about the cat, how she found him, and a few funny stories from when he was a kitten. Then she took the box outside to the balcony to burn him. They lived on the 42nd floor, so there was no yard to bury him in. Instead, Ember was given a funeral pyre._

_The moment was so surreal for Warren. Ember all cured up as if he was just sleeping. Warren sort of understood death, as, like, a concept. Ember was going away forever now. He wasn’t going to see the family cat ever again. But it just didn’t quite seem real in his mind. Not yet. That cat had been a fixture in his life for as long as he could remember._

_A strong hand squeezed his shoulder and Warren looked up to see his dad standing over him._

_“Everything dies, Little Soldier.” Said Dad. “Just some things last longer than others. Your mom had that little attempted murderer since long before you came along, and we gave him a good life. Give it a few months and your mother will get a new cat and everything will be as it was.”_

_“But-“ Little Warren paused, unsure how to phrase his question. “Mom’s a hero. I’m gonna be a hero. Aren’t heroes supposed to stop people from dying?”_

_Dad knelt down to be on Warren’s eye-level. Both hands on his shoulders when he spoke this time. “You can’t save everyone, Little Soldier. Sometimes you just gotta keep moving and try not to sweat the little things.”_

…

“We should keep moving.” Warren informed his friend. “Your dad said helping people on the ground is good, but its small scale. We need to get to the Mayor’s office and get rescue efforts organized to help on a larger scale.”

“Yeah, but Dad also said to keep helping people.” Will reminded the other man. “Shouldn’t we do that? Help people as we make our way to Downtown.”

The Commander also told them ‘stranger danger’ to spite the fact that they were both –legally- adults now, had powers beyond what was considered ‘normal’ for the average human, and were in the final stage of training to be superheroes. Clearly, Steve Stronghold was not in the best of sorts at the moment and maybe they should take whatever he told them under ‘advisement’ instead of ‘command’.

“Do you have a red phone on you?” Warren asked. 

“No.” Will shook his head. “Do you?”

“They only give red phones to heroes. I never passed, remember.” The pyrokinetic reminded him. There was no bitterness apparent in his voice, but his hands did flair up with flame. Will politely pretended not to notice. Warren would always be sensitive that the rest of the super-community didn’t trust him because of his father. “Since neither of us have red phone, and regular phones don’t work, we’re cut off. We have no idea what’s going on or what the best thing we can do it. We need to regroup with the others to figure things out.”

This made sense, and Will was about to nod his agreement when both boys’ attention was pulled to the sound of a scream. They both looked to see a man wearing a bright orange jumpsuit had put a mailbox through a store window.

“Jeez, c’mon!” Will groaned. “Looters already. Can’t people just be nice?”

He flew down the street at the guy. 

But Warren found himself frozen in place for some reason. The guy’s jumpsuit. Bright orange with a number on the front. It looked like a prison uniform. But the only prison around here was- -was the prison they sent his father to. Warren was staring at an inmate from Maxville Penitentiary, and he found he couldn’t move. Did the guy know Barron Battle? Did they see each other on the yard? Did they talk? Were they friends? Did people have friends in prison? Dad never answered any of Warren’s letters. It had been years since they talked. What happened to the prison in the quake? Did this guy escape in the quake? Did Dad escape in the quake? Where was Dad now?

The convict was a mundane, a normal human with not powers. Will took care of him easily. Flying in to intervene and knocking the guy out. Maybe he used a bit more strength than was necessary against an average human. But that’s what this internship was all about. Getting experience and learning from mistakes. The next time Will went up against someone without any powers, he would moderate his strength. He couldn’t wail on everyone the way he wailed on Warren in the lunch room the first year they met. 

Carrying the –now unconscious- convict over one shoulder, Will made his way back to his friend. 

“What happened to you?” Asked the younger man. “I know I’m faster than you, but you haven’t even moved.”

Warren blinked. “I-“ He was looking at the guy’s jumpsuit. The way Will had him thrown over his shoulder, Warren could clearly read ‘Maxville Penitentiary’ across the back. This guy came from the same prison as his father. “I- I was wondering if their might be more of them.”

It was not a lie. 

Will took another look at the guy he’d just busted, the significance of his outfit finally donning on him. “You think the quake caused a prison break?”

“How else would this guy get out?” Warren asked. 

Will didn’t exactly go pale. He had built up more confidence in himself and his own abilities as a her-to-be since his freshman year. But he also knew that he wasn’t a hero yet, and he couldn’t do everything. He couldn’t be everywhere at once. His jawline tightened with concern and just a small amount of tension. If the quake caused a break –out, and the police, fire fighters, and other rescue services were already busy with relief efforts, then it would be up to just them to protect the citizens and apprehend the escaped criminals. 

“We’ll keep a look out for more.” Will promised his friend. “In the meantime, what should we do with this guy?”

“We can’t keep him with us.” Warren agreed. That couldn’t fight new criminals while still babysitting the ones already apprehended. “Can you fly him to the nearest police station? They’ve got to have a holding cell.” Hopefully, one that wasn’t already over-full with regular non-convict looters. 

“Okay.” Will nodded, ready to leap into the air again. 

“And Stronghold-“ Warren added. He broke eye-contact almost the moment Will looked back at him. Turning to the side and speaking to a pile of rubble instead of his friend. “Max Pen is- it’s the place where- that’s where they sent my dad.” 

Will wasn’t sure if his friend was warning him to be careful while they split-up temporarily because Barron Battle was his father’s arch nemesis and always swore his revenge. Or if Warren was confiding in him, looking for support and comfort knowing that his father was a convict and if they found him, Warren would have to take him down like any other criminal. 

“I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.” Will promised, not knowing what else to say. 

…

Flamebird landed on the roof of the City Hall building. Layla glanced at her mentor was the older woman let go of her. The flight had been once of tense silence. Even since Layla asked about her relationship with Warren’s father. She knew Barron Battle was a touchy subject. He was a touchy subject with Warren, and he was a touchy subject with Mara Peace as well. Layla should have known better than to ask. It was not her business to pry into the affair. 

The Mayor’s aid, now the deputy-Mayor’s aid, met them on the roof. 

“You’re the last two to arrive.” She said, holding the roof access door open for them. “Flamebird and…?”

It took Layla a moment longer than it should have to realize the deputy-Mayor’s aid was asking for her superhero name. “Uh, undecided.” 

The deputy-Mayor’s aid did not look surprised. None of the other young heroes that had shown up with the seasoned veterans had given names either. Apparently, they weren’t Sidekicks. Apparently, the super-community was trying something new. Apparently, Sky High was doing something new. “You can call me Lucrezia.” 

She led them down the stairwell until they reached a floor full of offices. Leading them down a corridor, Lucrezia showed them into a conference room where other heroes were already waiting. 

Titan with Magenta. Wraith with Zach. Hardplace with Ethan. Also, Principal Powers wearing a costume Layla had never seen before –obviously, she had come out of retirement as Comet for this. And Coach Boomer, dressed in –what Layla assumed was- his old Sonic Boom costume, it certainly looked like it had walked out of the 80s. But Bedrock and Will were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Mr. Stronghold and Warren. 

Layla glanced around the room, thinking they might be lurking in a corner somewhere. Warren was certainly good a lurking. A world class lurker! But the conference room wasn’t that big. Most of its free space was taken up by a long table in the middle. Against one wall was a large coffee machine and a mini-fridge (neither of them working at the moment). The opposite wall was white and blank –presumably for presentation projections. There were windows facing the hall they just entered from, and more windows on the opposite wall facing out over the city –all of them cracked. But there were no lurking heroes-in-training that Layla missed with her first glance. 

Warren and Will weren’t here. Neither were their mentors. 

“May I get anyone a water?” Offered Lucrezia, opening the mini-fridge and pulling out tiny little plastic bottles, no bigger than a softball. “It’s not cold, I’m afraid. Power’s still out.”

Everyone shook their heads in a negative. 

Through the windows facing the corridor, Layla saw a woman with a page-boy haircut and still wearing pajamas exit an office. She entered the conference room holding a sheet of paper with some hand-written notes on it. “Thank you everyone for waiting. I just got off the radio with the Warden of Max Pen and have a complete list of names.”

“Max Pen!” Flamebird exclaimed, raising into the air a couple inches. The room became inexplicably warmer. “As in Maxville Penitentiary!”

Layla looked at her mentor, startled. Thus far, that was a reaction the older woman only gave whenever Layla asked a question about a certain supervillain lover that she was learning she was not supposed to ask about.

The woman gave a grim nod, not understanding the hero’s strong reaction had a deeper meaning. 

Ethan raised his hand, as if they were in class. He was a good student, and he had a question. “Sorry, who are you?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m Mia Kappur.” Supplied the woman in the pajamas as if that name was supposed to mean something to a room full of teenagers. 

“She’s the deputy-Mayor.” Lucrezia elaborated for them. One could not expect children to know the names of every member of their city’s government. Plenty of grown, voting, tax paying adults didn’t know who the deputy-Mayor was. It was unfair to expect children to. “The actual Mayor is being treated at Max General and is unavailable.”

“Thank you.” Nodded deputy-Mayor Kappur. 

“Go back to Max Pen!” Flamebird snarled. “What about Max Pen? What list of names? What’s going on?”

It was getting so warm in the small conference room now that Titan –casually- drifted over to one of the broken windows and just leaned against the glass, pushing the pain out and letting in some fresh air. Flamebird seemed not to hear it shatter on the street below. The whited-out eyes of her mask were fixed on deputy-Mayor Kappur. 

“I understand you have reason for concern.” Kappur nodded, using a tone as if she were giving a speech up on a podium. She had excellent composure, rumpled pajamas and messy hair notwithstanding. If she ever ran for the head Mayoral seat, Layla could be persuaded to vote for her. “Max Pen is where a lot of you have sent your arch nemeses and other super criminals.”

Something clicked in Layla’s mind. She blurted out her epiphany for the whole room to hear. “Ohmygawd! Barron Battle’s at Max Pen!”

All eyes in the room turned to Layla for a split second, before just Ethan, Zach, and Magenta’s attention turned towards Flamebird. Warren’s mother. The hero who had a love affair and love-child with a supervillain. 

The room got inexplicably warmer. 

Titan knocked out another window.

Everyone pretended not to hear it shatter on the street below. 

Deputy-Mayor Kappur cleared her throat. “Yes, the criminal known as Barron Battle was being held at Max Pen.”

“Was?” Flamebird pressed. 

They were sweating in their costumes now. 

“He, and thirty-six other inmates, both super and mundane, escaped last night during the quake.” She informed them. “I have the complete list of all escapees, which have powers, and what those powers are.”

She set the paper with her hand written notes on the conference table for everyone to see. Barron Battle’s name was at the top with a note next to it saying ‘passive power - accelerated healing, but vicious and ruthless, to be considered highly dangerous’. 

“I’ve got FIMA and Red Cross on their way. Relief should arrive in the city by tomorrow.” Kappur continued. “But they can’t do anything about supervillains. I can have Lucrezia divide up the list, and it looks like you’ve already got teams going-“ she noted that each hero had a younger hero with them “-I need you to round up these criminals before they cause more problems than we’ve already got.”

“Where’s the Commander?” Asked Flamebird –no, demanded Flamebird. 

“He and Jetstream flew out to the prison to speak to the Warden in person.” Supplied the deputy-Mayor in her best ‘I’m helping’ voice. 

Flamebird pursed her lips. “Did they take the Commander’s mentee with them?”

Surely the Commander would not have brought Barron Battle’s son to the prison where Barron Battle was held. 

“I, uh, wasn’t aware the Commander had a protégé.” The other woman looked suddenly unsure. “I didn’t see anyone else with them.”

The temperature in the room spiked so hot, it was like standing in a furnace. 

Layla looked at her mentor. If Warren wasn’t with the Commander, then where was he? Did he know his father had escaped? Surely Will’s dad would not have just abandoned him the moment he heard of Battle’s escape. Where did Mr. Stronghold leave Warren before he and Will’s mom flew off to find and combat the boy’s supervillain father?

Without even the curtesy of a nod, Flamebird turned, raising one foot onto the window sill, about to jump out one of the windows Titan already opened. 

“Where are you going?” Layla asked her mentor.

Turning back around, Flamebird flashed a hard frown at everyone in the room. It was impossible to read her eyes with the mask covering them, but Layla got the feeling she was sweeping the adults in the room with a hard glare. “I’m going to find one, or both of my boys.”

Without further comment, she jumped out the window and took to the air, flying over the city. 

Deputy-Mayor Kappur blinked, not understanding what had just happened, or why it got inexplicably cooler once the hero of flame left the room. “Does… does Flamebird have some kind of connection to the Commander?” 

After all, she was just asking about the Commander and a mysterious ‘protégé’ before she got noticeably upset and flew off. It was widely accepted that the Commander and Jetstream were an item, but if the Commander was training a protégé that Flamebird claimed as ‘her boy’, then did that mean…? Did the Commander have an affair with Flamebird? She was a very attractive woman, even in her mid-forties now. 

While the deputy-Mayor was drawing the very wrong conclusions, her aid, Lucrezia, had her head tilted to the side. Almost as if she were listening to someone whispering. But there was no earbud in her ear. “Don’t worry about Flamebird.” She told them. “She knows her way around a villain.”

Layla blinked at her. Did Lucrezia have a tone when she said that? Did Lucrezia mean Flamebird knew her way around villains in general, or one particular villain? Did she know about Flamebird’s love affair with Barron Battle? How did the deputy-Mayor’s aid know about the affair, but the deputy-Mayor did not!?

Standing next to Layla, Magenta hissed in her ear, “Ooh! I bet you she’s a Thread in the Web.” 

“A what in the what?” The other girl blinked at her friend. 

“I’ll tell you later.” The shapeshifter promised. 

“We can’t be worrying about Flamebird right now.” Principal Powers –Comet- Layla had to get used to calling her ‘Comet’ when she was in costume, said. “We’ll divide up the city and each take a section. We’ll go block by block and sweep for the escapees. Each team will need a copy of this list. Can I assume that with the power out, the photocopier is also down? Who has the best handwriting here?”

Ethan raised his hand to volunteer. 

“Cell towers are still down, but red phones work off of satellite.” Comet continued to explain as Ethan began diligently copying the list of thirty-seven escaped convicts and their powers. “Your red phones should always work. In addition, all police, fire fighters, and this office should have radios on them. Keep a method of communication on you at all times. If you come across an escapee that’s more than you can handle, call for back-up. A lot of you are still new to this and this is a lot to be thrown at you so soon. Know your limits. There’s no shame in asking for help.”

Layla, Magenta, Zach, and Ethan all nodded. 

“Now, here’s how we’ll divide up the city-”

“Hey, you guys.” Ethan looked up from copying the list, his eyes sweeping over his friends. “Royal Pain’s on this list too.”

He slid the original list across the table so that the other protégés could clearly read the line that said ‘Tenny, Sue/Grayson, Gwendolyn: active power – technopath, to be considered highly dangerous’. 

“That’s not a big deal.” Zach scoffed. “We handled her just fine in our freshman year. I’m sure we can take her now that we’ve got actual training.”

“Unless she and Barron Battle team-up.” Magenta informed him. “They both swore revenge on the Commander, remember? And we know next to nothing about Battle except that he’s a supervillain, was in prison, and is War-“ She cut herself off before she could finish Warren’s name. Yes, Barron Battle was Warren’s dad. A fact he never let any of them forget, because the rest of the world never let Warren forget it. But the deputy-Mayor did not need to know that. 

“He’s War?” Blinked the deputy-Mayor, assuming this was his villain name that she was just unfamiliar with. She certainly hadn’t ever heard of a villain called ‘War’ –or a hero for that matter. 

All of the protégés looked up at the deputy-Mayor, startled. 

There was a tense silence in the room. 

Lucrezia cocked her head to the side again as if listening to someone else whispering in her ear. Then had to hide a smile behind her hand, as if laughing at some private joke only she knew. 

Then Titan forced a deep bark of a laugh, startling everyone in the room. “After the shit he pulled in Serbia, I think the name ‘War’ fits Battle rather well.”

…

The Warden of Maxville Penitentiary looked very different from the first time the Commander met him ten years ago when Barron was first sentenced. Back then, he had looked on the older side of ‘middle-aged’, with a pattern of balding hair, and both his eyes. Now, he was completely bald, but had grown a thick beard instead. He kept it cut short to his face, and shaped with sharp angles that made him look more severe and intimidating. Authoritative. 

But the most striking change in the Warden’s appearance was not the new beard, or the lack of hair on his head. Or even the fact that he wore a standard issue uniform now in place of the suits and blazers he favored a decade ago. No, the most striking feature of the Warden’s changed appearance was his missing eye. 

His left eye. The man wore a patch over it, covering the worst of the damage. But there was a deep scar cutting down from his forehead to his cheek, right though the eye socket. There was a dark inky blue-black line woven into the scar, almost as if he were tattooed as he was cut and Steve remembered someone mentioning that Barron had caused the wound with a pen. He certainly knew how to leave his mark on people. The Warden’s one good eye blazed with hatred whenever anyone spoke Barron’s name. 

“And you’re sure you didn’t see him on your flight here?” The Warden pressed, as if repeating the same question he’d already asked six or seven times would somehow inexplicably change the answer. “The 404 isn’t a particularly winding highway, and there’s not a lot of ground cover. It’s not like he’d have many hiding places.” 

That was true. But neither Steve nor Josie saw anyone along the road as they were flying up. 

Of course, being such a clear day, anyone on the ground would have just as easy a time seeing the two supers in the sky coming, as they would have seeing someone on the ground. Barron was quick-witted and resourceful. If he saw them before they saw him, there was no doubt in Steve’s mind that his old rival turned nemesis could find a way to play least-in-sight. 

“In any event,” the Commander cleared his throat, “I’d like to see his cell if at all possible.”

It had been ten years since Steve last saw or spoke to Barron. He wanted to get a gauge of the man’s headspace. See if his captivity might have calmed his temper at all, or just stoked his rage. 

Begrudgingly, the Warden lead the pair of supers through the corridors of the prison. Every window was shattered by the quake, the only thing keep the glass from littering the floor was it lamination. The walls were solid concrete and several feet thick, but almost all of them sported deep cracks climbing up from the floor. Some were even broken open, offering views of rooms beyond, or of the yard outside. Seeing all the damage in the light of day, Steve was impressed that only thirty-seven inmates escaped instead of the full two-hundred and fifty the prison was designed to hold. 

The Warden lead them down a flight of stairs. Through a corridor. Past some broken showers. Down a second flight of stairs. The Warden had to turn on a flashlight. The power was still out and the corridor they found themselves in now had no windows. 

It was a narrow little hallway. Lined on both sides with heavy steels doors, each with cardkey locks instead of the traditional barrel and tumbler locks of the cells upstairs. The Warden lead both the Commander and Jetstream down to one of the cells near the end of the hall. The door was still shut and with the power out, the cardkey lock wouldn’t open, so Steve pried the door open with his own super-strength. 

Inside, the room was in shambled. The ceiling was caved in, burying most of the room. There was water covering the floor from the broken toilet. But it was well lit. Far better lit than the interior corridor. Because on the far side of the room, the wall was broken open, allowing the light of day to pour in. Warm, soft sunlight, shining on the gray and cracked concrete of the rubble inside. 

The narrow cot that must have been Barron’s only bed was crushed. But the Commander saw the corner of a piece of paper sticking out from under it. Bending down, Steve pulled out a wet and torn segment of a letter. Hand written. Short. Only two lines. ‘Prom was eventful. Everyone got what they wanted. –Love Warren’ And Steve realized it was a letter from Barron’s son. He had no idea the boy continued to write to the man well into high school. 

Lifting the rubble and the mangled cot, Steve found more letters under the bed. It looked like they had been arranged in two neat piles. But, between the quake and the water, that order was good and trashed. Papers littered the floor under where the cot had been. Soggy, some torn, some with ink running so that it was impossible to read. Letters written on notebook paper, letters written on nice cardstock and sprayed with perfume. Letters from Warren and from Mara. Apparently, the hero continued to carry the torch for her lover –her husband, Warren said they were married- even after he was proven evil and sent to prison. 

Bending down, Steve picked up a small rectangular paper and flipped it over to see a semi-recent photograph of Warren. Dressed in cap and gown from the high school graduation last year. Apparently, Mara continued to send letters and keepsakes to Barron as recently as last June. Did that mean Warren still wrote to his father just as recently? Well after becoming friends with Will. Did Barron write back? Was the boys’ friendship really part of Barron’s revenge plan. He did always swear his revenge. Was Warren in on it? Should he not have left the boys together –alone!? Was Barron on his way to meet up with Warren right now? Had the son been scheming with the father all along?

But no! That couldn’t be right. Warren barely knew his father. He was only nine when Barron was put away. An ignorant child. And he was raised by a hero. If Mara Peace could manage to love a supervillain, to have a child with a supervillain, to marry and supervillain, and still be a hero meant that Warren could still care about a supervillain and write to a supervillain, but still be a decent kid too. As Steve was forced to learn when he was confronted by the child of someone he put away, life –and relationships- could be complicated. That didn’t mean that everyone who cared about a bad person was equally bad by association. 

Josie bent down to pick up another photo. This one was not quite as wholesome and she threw it back on the wet floor with an expletive of disgust. 

On reflex, Steve’s eyes flicked down to see what was so disgusting. Hot damn! Flamebird really looked like that under her costume! It was a dirty little photo of Mara Peace, stark naked except for some jewelry. Laying across the camera’s frame, olive skin glowing in candle light, eyes half-lidded, mouth pouty and partially open, nipples hard with gold barrel piercings through them, the word ‘Battle’ tattooed over one breast. 

Steve immediately found the collapsed ceiling above them very interesting. Looking everywhere but at the naughty picture on the floor. 

“I don’t see how this would help you bring down Battle.” The Warden all but spat out Barron’s name. 

“I need to understand his thinking.” The Commander informed him. 

“Barron Battle is an animal.” Snarled the Warden, lifting one hand to indicate his missing eye. “He doesn’t think. He just attacks.”

…

Battle was expecting some version of order when he made it to Divide. Ave always did seem to be prepared for every eventuality. The old bastard had a contingency for everything, and contingencies for half his contingencies. So, Battle was expecting Divide to still be standing, and maybe in some version of ‘working order’ aside from the power outage. 

He was not expecting to find the entire street outside the club had been converted into a MASH camp. 

People ran from one side of the street to the other, carrying sterile bandages, bottles of water, bags of liquid morphine, blankets, or what-have-you. Others were bent over prone bodies, shouting orders, or demanding supplies. The whole street was a wash of activity and action. 

One woman, younger-ish, and heavily pregnant pushed past him with a bossy snarl of, “Move!”

“I’m looking for the Broker.” He shouted after her retreating back. Damn. He hadn’t seen a pregnant woman move like that since Mara was carrying Warren. 

“You must not know who I am.” She past a bottle of water to someone who bent down next to a person laying on a yoga mat and held the bottle for them while they drank. 

“Do you know who I am?” Battle countered. True, he had been gone a while. But there had once been a time when Barron Battle was the most mentioned name in the Broker’s organization. Everyone who worked for Ave knew him. Whether they’d actually met him or not. 

“I don’t have time to play ‘Who-the-Fuck-Are-You?’!” She turned back around and got a clear look at him. Tall. Fit. Longish hair, dark and curly. Glasses over his eyes. A square chin with just the slightest of cleft in it. Wearing a dirty white t-shirt, over kaki pants that looked like part of a larger jumpsuit. The woman tilted her head, as if she kinda might have recognized him, but couldn’t put a name to the face. “Do I know you?”

Getting a good look at her now, Battle decided she was just a smidge too young to have worked for Broker before he was arrested. She looked mid-twenties. She would have been just a teenager ten years ago. Still… there was something oddly familiar about her voice when she demanded if they knew each other. Battle could have sworn he’d heard that very same question, from that very same voice before. Years and years ago? In Tel Aviv maybe? The Gaza Strip? Jerusalem? ‘Do I know you? Why are you following me?’ ‘Your grandfather hired me to watch you.’ Then it clicked in his mind. 

“Wait… Riv? Little Rivkah Wechsler? Hey!” He blinked at the woman standing before him. This was Ave’s gawky and pimple-faced grand-daughter? Damn. A lot could change in ten years! “You might not remember me, but I was your bodyguard when you went on that Birthright Trip.”

“Oh. You.” She did not seem quite so impressed. “Cosimo warned us you were out. Saba’s inside.” She said that last bit as if it were a dismissal and went back to marching from one end other MASH camp to the other as if she weren’t eight months pregnant and needed to use one arm to support her belly as she moved. 

She might be older now, and about to be a mom, apparently, but damn if that little girl wasn’t still full of piss and vinegar. Battle felt sorry for Fixer –her father- when she was a teenager, and he still felt sorry of Fixer now. Warren never gave him any such sass. Warren was –almost- always perfectly behaved. (Of course, Battle stopped being a part of Warren’s like just before he entered his teenage years, so could it really be considered a fair comparison?)

Battle turned towards the club entrance. 

It was dark inside Divide. 

Dark, and eerie. The building didn’t sound right. There were cracks in the walls, not enough to let in sunlight, but enough to make the air whisper as it passed through. Lights and sound equipment were collapsed over the stage. The dance floor was covered in shake-debris. The stairs to the second-floor lounge were bent at an odd angle that made Battle wonder if they might collapse if anyone tried to climb them. 

Turning in a wide circle, eyes squinting in the darkness, trying to make his vision adjust faster. Battle finally spotted the old man leaning against the bar. Sipping brandy from a cracked glass. There was a second –empty- glass waiting next to the bottle. 

“Been a while, Pup.” The old man waved him over before picking up the brandy bottle and pouring out a couple of shots into the empty glass. 

Crossing the dance floor, stepping over fragments of scaffolding, and picking his way between less recognizable debris, Battle made his way over to the bar. Pulling out a stool, he sat down next to the Broker. “I’m forty-eight, Ave, almost fifty. Are you ever gonna stop calling me ‘Pup’?”

The old man smirked, finding amusement in some long ago and far away memory. “You’ll still always be that rude and pissy brat that was caught hawking Paladin’s old stuff. Moody and snarly, like a kicked puppy.”

Battle bristled at the memory. Not of his first meeting with the Broker, but of the series of event that lead up to that meeting. It was a lifetime ago, but reminds –even casual ones- never failed to make Battle uncomfortable. “I didn’t come here to reminisce, Ave.”

“Well, you sure as hell didn’t come asking for a client!” The old man gave another snort of a laugh. “So what can I do for you?”

“Information.” Battle supplied, reaching into his pocket. 

“I don’t know where the Commander is.” Ave told him. “You’ll have better luck checking the skies, then with me.”

“No.” Battle shook his head and withdrew Warren’s letter. Sliding the envelope across the bar. “I need to know where in the city is this address. And how to get there.”

The Old Broker squinted at the return address. Taking out his cell phone, he flipped it open and used the light to see better by. Finally, he set the envelope back down. “Your little bombshell moved herself and the boy to Max Adj.”

“Maxville Adjacent!” Battle had picked up the brandy glass to take a sip but he found himself slamming it back down on the counter. “Why!?”

They used to live in the Spear! One of the most sought after buildings in the city. In the heart of Downtown. In the thick of things. The center of culture, and government, and the super community. Why would Mara move them out!?

The Broker offered him a sympathetic look, almost pitying. Ave tipped more brandy into Battle’s glass before he explained. “Your trial was a big media circus. I’m not sure how much you actually noticed, being in lock-up the whole time. But they ran coverage of it almost twenty-four/seven. Your picture was all over the news, and your family’s pictures were all over the news. Downtown is the center of activity in Maxville, and your wife’s and son’s faces had just become almost as famous as the Commanders. Except, unlike the Commander, they don’t have public favor.”

And Warren was just a child at the time…

Now Battle understood. 

He looked at his own reflection in the brandy. Then took a sip. Grimacing at the flavor. Battle never did acquire the taste for alcohol. He set the glass back down. “So, they’re in Max Adj now.” He slid the letter back into his pocket. “How do I get there?”

Ave scribbled some directions on a bar napkin. 

Battle thanked him and left. 

It was only after Battle was gone that Cosimo came up to the Old Broker’s side. “I heard Mr. Battle was here.”

“Just gone.” Broker decided to finish Battle’s undrunk brandy for him. The Pup wasn’t coming back. “Why?”

“I just heard from my sister in the Mayor’s office.” Supplied Cosimo. “Flamebird knows he’s out and she ditched the supers she was with and flew out. Thought she might come here.”

Broker gave another laugh, this one of humorless irony. “And so they’ll just miss each other.”


	9. Peace & Battle

Flamebird landed outside Divide, right in the middle of the MASH camp. 

“Flambird!” Her ungloved hand was almost instantly grabbed by Rivkah, the new Broker, and she was dragged away from the building entrance. “I’m glad you’re here, we could use the help.” The younger woman pulled Mara over to where they had stainless steel pots and metal buckets full of used scalpels, syringes, tweezers, and other medical equipment. All submerged in water. “Can you boil this for me? We need to sterilize them before they can be used again.”

Once upon a time, Mara Peace would not have hesitated to help people in need. To drop her personal quest in order to guard and protect the sick or wounded, and serve the Greater Good. Now… she couldn’t bring herself to care. Now, doing something as simple as helping to boil water in an emergency medical camp was an unwelcome nuisance and a distraction. 

“I’m looking for Barron.” Flamebird informed the younger woman. Then she realized that Rivkah Wechsler was only sixteen when Barron Battle was sentenced. She might not remember him, or if she did remember, might not be able to recognize him. “Ave hired him as a body guard for you that time you went to Israel.”

“I know who he is.” Riv told her, impatiently. She picked up the smallest and lightest of the buckets and all but shoved it into the fire wielder’s arms. “Here. Heat!”

More out of reflex than any true desire to help, Mara held the bucket in her arms, her power raising the temperature until the water inside it started to steam and boil. The metal was still hot and the water still boiling inside it when Mara put the bucket back down again. 

“Riv, please.” Even to her own ears, Mara sounded desperate. “I don’t know where my son is, and I just heard that the Commander might have just abandoned him somewhere. I don’t know where to look for Warren, but I do know where to look for Barron. He wouldn’t know where we live anymore, so the first place he’d come is here. Have you seen him!?”

Grabbing the older woman’s hands again, Rivkah forced Mara to grab the next bucket. “I’ve got bigger problems to deal with than your family drama!”

“Why? You’re not a hero?” Mara snarled, the sheer heat of her anger causing the bucket she was now holding to boil. 

“Neither are you!” Rivkah shouted back, causing a few heads in the MASH camp to turn. In a quieter hiss, the younger woman elaborated. “You haven’t been a hero for years, Flamebird. Not a real one. You think I haven’t Read you? You think I don’t know you? You’re just going through the motions. You don’t care. You’re just biding your time until your boy doesn’t need you anymore. Until he can survive on his own and doesn’t need his ‘hero’ mommy shielding him anymore.”

“How dare you-“ 

“Barron was here.” Rivkah supplied, cutting the older woman off. “He came to Saba, looking for you just like you said. But you just missed him. He was heading to Max Adj when he left. Between his head-start and your flight, you’d probably make it to your house at the same time. Why don’t you just go, since you clearly don’t care about doing any good here.”

…

Warren was welding the metal post of a fallen street sign in half when Will rejoined him. 

Flying down into the middle of the street with an unnecessarily dramatic swoosh. Other people on the street gaped at him, mouths hanging open in awe. Will really did look like a young Commander in all that white, blue, and red. Warren didn’t even bat an eyelash, never mind bother to turn his head. 

His attention stayed focused on what he was doing. Folding his fire in on itself. Sharpening it. Using it to cut through metal. 

It was then that Will noticed the metal post had fallen in such a way that it was holding a window shut. On the other side of the window was a very frightened looking cat. Will had to suppress the urge to smile. Warren tried to deny it, he said he didn’t care about cats. Cats just liked him because he was warm. It was true, cats did like Warren Peace, and he was warm. But will had been to Warren’s house. He had met Warren’s cat. He had seen all the toys, and pet beds, and blankets sized too small for a human, heck! there was even a chair no one was allowed to sit in because it was ‘Soot’s spot’. Warren Peace loved cats, he was a cat-person. 

The metal sign post finally broke in half and fell away. Warren slid the window up and reached in. Grabbing the cat by the scruff of the neck, he pulled the little tuxedo short hair out. 

Its fur was all fluffed out, and it clung to Warren as he turned from the window and knelt in front of a little girl. 

“There.” He whispered in a voice too soothing to come out of the same guy who once threatened to roast Will alive. 

The little girl reached out her arms, prying the tuxedo cat off the superhero’s costume. “Tuxedo Mask, I’m so glad you’re safe!” She hugged the cat close to herself. 

With a satisfied smile of his own, Warren straitened and turned to his friend. But that contented smile was gone by the time he met the other man’s eyes. Warren’s resting grimace face was back in place, the pyrokinetic shifting back into what he considered his ‘serious mode’. “Were you able to find a place to hold him?”

“Yeah.” Nodded Will. “And the police radio was working too. You were right. The quake did cause a break out. The Mayor wants all heroes available to focus on re-apprehending them. They’ve got a list of all the escapees. I left before they finished reading the whole thing, but- -Royal Pain was one of the ones that escaped. Along with her whole entourage.”

Warren flashed a teasing smirk. “Worried about your crazy ex-girlfriend?”

Will was probably supposed to get flustered and huffy. Point out that he and Gwen Grayson never went on a real date. She tutored him in science, and they were supposed to go to prom together, but they didn’t. Then she turned his parents into babies and the relationship was over before it ever technically began. But he didn’t. For once, light-hearted, optimistic, and happy Will Stronghold looked as grim-faced as his friend. “I did recognize one other name on the list.”

Warren raised one eyebrow, then remembered his mask covered his brows and the younger man couldn’t see the action. “Who.”

“Your-“ Will cut himself off, mindful of the other people on the street. Civilians. Probably shouldn’t announce that the hero that was just rescuing their beloved household pets was the son of a rather infamous supervillain. Will swallowed, not sure how his friend was going to react. “Barron Battle.”

Flames leapt over Warren’s hands as they clenched into fists. 

There was a pregnant pause. 

The only sound, the little girl cooing at her rescued cat. 

Finally, “I see.” Warren turned and began walking down the street. His hands –and arms now- still on fire. 

Will blinked at his black-clad retreating back. “Wait. What? That’s it!?”

He did a bit of a skip-hop to catch up to the other man. Warren was taller than him and had a wider stride, but he was also just naturally a fast walker to. Not, like, super-speed. He wasn’t a speedster. But the dude could cover a lot of ground in less time than it took the average person. Warren Peace walked with purpose. Even when he was walking aimlessly. 

“What do you mean ‘that’s it’?” Snapped the older man, the fire of his arms licking over his shoulders. “We’ve got our instructions. Search the city for more escapees, subdue them, and get them off the streets. What else is there?”

Will looked back at the civilians still watching them. This was not a conversation to be had within hearing range of the uninitiated. Lifting himself back into the air, Will scooped Warren up. Sweeping the other man off his feet and into his arms. Ignoring the discomfort of the fire, and thanking Magenta for being smart enough to suggest he make his costume flame retardant and insulated. Carrying Warren bridal-style, Will flew them to the first –slightly slanted- abandoned rooftop he saw. 

“What the fork, Stronghold!?” Warren demanded. 

“Don’t you ‘what the fork’ me. What the frick with you!?” Will snapped back. 

“What!?” Snarled the pyrokinetic. The flames were spreading over his chest now. Down his torso and over his neck. Fire was the element of emotion, and Warren Peace had a lot of feelings –his efforts to hide them be damned, and damned by how own stupid powers. 

Will just raised his chin. He didn’t need words to point out that his friend was clearly not as cool and calm as he wanted to appear. 

“I’m fine!” Warren insisted. 

“I’m remembering a time I just mentioned your dad in a perfectly reasonable, factual, statement and you tried to kill me in front of a cafeteria full of witnesses.” 

One burning hand reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, as if Warren were trying to stave off a stress headache. “Stronghold… Will. Do we- do we have to do this right now?”

“This seems like something we should discuss before we run into him.” Will thought he was being very reasonable. And, maybe, Warren was being reasonable too. He hadn’t thrown a fireball at anything yet. That was remarkably restrained for Warren, considering only three years ago the mere mention of daddy-Battle sent him into a berserker rage. 

“The city’s so big. We probably won’t get to see him before your dad finds him and puts him back away.” Warren informed him. 

Will couldn’t help but note that the tone was more mournful than reassuring. Warren wanted to cross paths with Barron Battle before he was apprehended and sent back to jail. Warren wanted to see his dad. 

Barron Battle was supposed to be a terrifying supervillain. Will remembered his own dad calling Battle ‘just the worst’. Not only that, but Dad also said that Barron Battle ‘always swore his revenge’, and Will was the son of the man he swore revenge on. It would not be a wise thing for Will Stronghold to seek out the terrifying supervillain that always swore revenge on his dad. Not wise. Not smart. Not a good idea. 

To spite that, Will found himself asking, “Where do you think your dad would go?”

“What?” Warren asked again, not understanding. The flames covering his torso flickered, tongues of fire leaping off his shoulders into the air. 

“Where should we look for him?” Will elaborated. “I can fly us anywhere. Now that he’s out, where’s the first place he’d go?”

“You-“ Behind his mask, Warren blinked at his friend. Stronghold could be really dumb sometimes. Other times, he could be so dumb that the English language needed to invent a new word for just how dumb he was. “You can’t beat him.”

That was a very valid concern if Battle decided he rather liked the idea of murdering the son of the man who put him away. It was a concern that had already occurred to Will. And it was a concern that Will would keep in mind. Barron Battle was dangerous. More so for him specifically because of who’s son he was. Even so-

“You wanna see him, right?” Will decided to continue as if his friend hadn’t spoken. “You should get to see him before he’s sent back. We’ll look for him together.”

Warren just stared at the younger man. The only movement, the fire flickering across his chest. 

Will flashed a reassuring grin. Gawddamn if he didn’t already have that heroic, reassuring smile down on lock already. That stupid smile, on that dumb face made a person want to believe that everything was going to be okay. It made Warren want to believe that everything was going to be okay and Will would be safe if they went looking for Barron Battle together. 

Shaking his head, Warren muttered. “You’re so stupid.”

Will took this as the older man agreeing. “So, where am I taking you? Where are we gonna look first?”

Leaning his head back, Warren cast his eyes to the sky. Heaven help him. Save him from this insufferable optimist, with his kind and empathetic heart, that didn’t seem to care that the man he was so ready to take Warren to for a visit could kill him. Warren sighed. Surrendering. The fires of Warren Peace could be an unstoppable force some times. But Will Stronghold was an immovable object. And when an unstoppable force goes up against an immovable object, there’s nothing either of them could do except surrender. 

“The Spear.” Warren finally answered. The flames covering his torso retreating from his chest to his shoulders. From the shoulders, down the arms. Until the only part of him still burning was his hands. Warren forced his fists to unclench. He forced his fire back inside his body. “Before your dad took him away from us, we lived in the Spear building in Downtown.”

Nodding, Will scooped Warren back into his arms. The pyrokinetic was much more pleasant to hold now that he was no longer on fire. “Alright. Then Downtown is where we’ll go.”

And then they were airborne again. 

Will was a much faster flyer than Warren’s mother. Of course, Will inherited his flight from Jetstream, whom had super-sonic flight. Super-sonic flight was faster than a speeds of sound. Flambird just had ‘flight’. Basic flight. Average speeds. Nothing super-fast. Nothing super-sonic. Certainly, nothing that could break the sound barrier. Nothing as fast as what Will had. 

They were over Downtown in moments. 

The Spear building was probably the only building over ten stories that was still perfectly upright and not listing or leaning at all. Will set them down on the roof. The perfectly level. Un-cracked. Almost immaculate. Roof. The only thing that could even be considered ‘damage’ was that the paint on the helipad was faded and a little chipped in places. 

Warren looked at the younger man like he was an idiot. 

“What?” Will asked. “What now?”

“My dad can’t fly, Stronghold.” The older man informed him. “How are we supposed to find him from all the way up here?”

Then again, if Will wanted to stay up here where Barron Battle wouldn’t be able to see him, while Warren went down to look for his father alone, maybe that would be better. That way there was no danger of the younger man being attacked –or killed- by a supervillain and Warren wouldn’t have to choose sides. 

“Right.” Will nodded, as if this hadn’t even occurred to him. 

As if he didn’t already know that only about twenty percent of supers could fly, and that the vast majority of supers were flightless and earthbound. In the four years Will was in school, there were only two other flyers besides himself in attendance at the same time. Will was the only flyer in his own graduating class. Back in 1979, his mother was the only flyer in her graduating class. In 1981, Warren’s mother was the only flyer in her graduating class. Flight was a recessive trait and a rare power because of it. 

Will strolled across the roof to the access door. Finding it locked, he applied a little super-strength and broke it open instead. “You said this place was the first place he’d come now that he’s out. What floor were you on?”

Warren continued to glare at his friend from behind the whited-out eyes of his mask. After a moment’s hesitation, he finally answered. “Forty-two. We lived above the half-line.”

And then they were making their way down the access stairwell. The Spear was seventy stories high. The forty-second floor was less than half the way down from the top, and going down stairs was always supposed to be easier than going up them. But after so much repetitive motion of leg muscles that weren’t regularly flexed, both of them were feeling a bit of a burn. 

Finally, they made it to the stairwell door marked with a utilitarian 42 next to it in large numbers. This one was unlocked and Will didn’t have to apply any super-pressure to open it for his friend. 

The forty-second floor was divided up into only four condominium units. Properties were larger and more luxurious above the half-line, but that also meant that fewer fit per floor. The hallway they found themselves in was also very nice. Painted in warm colors of sienna and sandy-gold, with accents in dark teal. It was also devoid of any visible damage from the quake. The only indication that it had suffered through an earthquake was the fact that all the lights were out. The corridor instead being lit by two windows, one on either end of the hall. 

Will eyed a small sofa positioned against the wall opposite the elevators and wondered if it would be unheroic to sit down for a sec before continuing. Twenty-eight floors was still a lot of stairs, even if they had been going down. 

Warren, however, seemed not to feel any fatigue after the stairwell. Either that, or he just didn’t notice it. His attention was fixed on unit number 42-B. The door seemed so much larger back when he was nine years old and barely above four feet tall. Now he was six-two and it seemed so… average. Crossing the corridor, Warren tried turning the handle. 

It was locked. 

Of course, it would be. Warren knocked, not sure if he wanted it to be answered or not. Which would feel less bitter? Having confirmation that some stranger was now living in your childhood home that you were forced out of, or seeing that the place had been left vacant, unused, lifeless? 

There was a pregnant pause. An odd stillness in the air and Will wondered if the other man was holding his breath. He rose from the sofa to stand next to his friend. 

The door was finally opened by a middle aged woman in a flannel shirt, holding a glass of wine. “Will the power be back soo- You’re not from the building concierge.”

“No.” Warren growled out. A low, serious growl. Uncomfortably similar to the voice he used in detention when he threatened to roast Will alive. Clearly, the pyrokinetic had feelings about meeting the person who now lived in the home that used to be his. 

Standing next to his friend, Will put on his friendliest ‘here to save the day’ smile. “Sorry to bother you.” He began politely. “But we’re looking for someone. Have you seen anyone suspicious around since the quake?”

Leaning against the door frame, the woman sipped her wine. “I didn’t know superheroes canvased door-to-door like cops.” Her eyes ran them both up and down. “Don’t recognize you. You must be pretty low on the food chain to get door duty.”

Will’s friendly smile faltered. He had gotten so used to being compared to his father and placed on a pedestal with high expectations, he didn’t know how to react to being called ‘low on the food chain’, and compared to mundane police officers. “No job is too small.” He told her. “Can I assume, since you’re so calm and unconcerned-“ he watched her take another sip of wine “-that no one suspicious has come by?”

“The only suspicious thing I’ve seen all day are the two supers pulling door duty like mundane beat cops.” She informed them. With that, she pushed off the doorframe, drained her wineglass, and shut the door in their faces. 

They heard it lock. 

Will turned to his friend. Warren’s fists were clenched, but nothing was on fire yet, so he took that as a positive sign. “Well, I guess it’s safe to assume your dad hasn’t gotten here yet.”

Warren grit his teeth. “It’s stupid. I was stupid for wanting to see him and you were stupid for suggesting we go looking for him. He’s probably going after your dad. He wouldn’t come here. I didn’t even wanna see him all that much anyway. He’s a supervillain. I would have to take him down.”

Raising both eyebrows, Will looked at his friend. Fists clenched. Shoulders tense. Jaw set in a forlorn grimace. He wasn’t disappointed. He was conflicted. 

“So, like, I know your dad went to jail because of my dad.” Will began, reprising his unfinished statement from their first meeting. “But you clearly seem to still like your dad, to spite him being a supervillain and all.” Not just ‘care’ about him, but actually like him, as a person. “So, I gotta assume he was a good dad. It’s okay if you wanna see him, and it’s okay to not want to be the one who has to send him back to prison. I also think –if he really was a good dad- his first impulse wouldn’t be to attack my dad, but to see how you’re doing. Make sure you’re okay. Then go for the attempted murder of my dad.” 

At no point did either of them think ‘kill the Commander’ wasn’t on Barron Battle’s ‘To Do’ list. 

The tension in Warren’s shoulders eased a little. It was reassuring to hear that someone else thought his father would be looking for him and/or his mother instead of immediately trying to kill the Commander. 

“Do you still wanna look for him?” Will pressed. 

“I don’t know where else to try.” Warren confessed. Their old home was the only place he could think of that Barron Battle might return to. Warren didn’t know where else his dad might go.

…

Maxville Adjacent was a lot nicer than Battle was expecting. 

Sure, it was still cracked and broken, just like the rest of the city. But the streets, sign posts, lamps, and intersection lights were all covered in thick, healthy, vines that kept everything from falling. Dark green leaves that kept the streets shaded. It looked nice –pretty. Not quite like a forest. Nothing like the woods of Bedlam Unincorporated. But with the same earthy ‘fairy tale’ feel to it. 

Battle found the street he was looking for, and –finally- found the correct house number. 

A short, one story building, with a waist-high chain-link fence around the property. The front yard was dry dirt, devoid of any grass. The porch was bare of any décor or attempts to personalize the look of the exterior. The screen door was a heavy security screen, made of heavy steel and lightweight aluminum. 

Hopping over the short fence, Battle walked right up to the security screen and tried the handle. Locked. 

He walked around the building. A concrete driveway ran along the side of it. Empty. Battle didn’t know if that was because one of them was out with the car when the quake hit, or if they never had a car to begin with. Mara never needed one. She could fly. But Warren… Warren was old enough to drive now. Nineteen. He could have a car! 

The backyard was equally devoid of any grass. Just more dry, lifeless dirt. But here, at least, were signs of human habitation. Two wrote iron patio chairs. Blackened metal. No seat cushions. There was a bucket of ash next to one. 

Finally, Battle found the kitchen door. This one was –also- locked. 

With a weary sigh, Battle muttered a silent apology to Mara for having to break into her house, then put his fist through the door’s decretive glass window. It shredded up his hand and arm, but he was able to reach in and unlock it to let himself in. 

In the kitchen, Battle plucked a steak knife from the drying rack next to the sink and cut out the shards of glass that were imbedded under his skin and healed over. That done, he stood in the kitchen, taking time to examine how his wife and son had lived these past ten years. 

The kitchen was small. But then, the house was small. So, the kitchen was proportionate. With a window over the sink that looked out over the back yard. Counters covered in yellow linoleum that was chipped or even peeling on the edges. Beigh linoleum floor. Gas stove and oven. A refrigerator with water leaking out from under the door. Of course, with the power out, everything inside it would be melting and spoiling. On the floor next to the refrigerator was a large bowl of water, and a smaller dish for cat food. 

Of course, they would have a damn cat. Mara and her damn cats. 

The kitchen was separated from the rest of the house by a door that lead into the living room. 

Floored with an old and thinning carpet, probably the same beige monstrosity that was already there when they moved in. Mara would certainly never choose anything in a beige. The couch was red. A bright, racy, provocative red. Battle was sure he’d never seen it before, the couch they had when they lived at his condo was black. But this one still looked vaguely familiar… Then it hit him. This was one of the items Mara draped her body over in one of the naughty pictures she sent him. 

Battle felt his cheeks warm and thanked his lucky stars no one else was here to see the terrifying supervillain blush. Mara –and her brazenness- always had that effect on him. Battle turned his attention to the three doors all lined up on one side of the living room. 

The middle one turned out to be a bathroom. Small and narrow. Pretty basic. Toilet. Sink. Tub and shower. A litter box for a cat shoved against the wall opposite the human toilet, the kind with a plastic lid over it so that the litter doesn’t get flung all over the floor. Battle was about to continue his inspection of the house until he heard a soft, terrified, little mew issue from the box. 

Entering the room fully, Battle lifted the lid to find an all black cat cowering in the litter. A dark loaf of fluff and nerves. It gazed up at Battle with big, round, wide golden eyes. It hissed at Battle, not recognizing him as one of its two humans. 

“Well, that’s a fine ‘hello’.” He muttered to the cat. 

He placed the lid back on the litter box. If the cat wanted to sit and shiver in its own urine, he would let it. But Battle did go back to the kitchen to get the water bowel and placed it right outside the box. He had no idea how long the cat had been in there, but it would need to drink at some point. Mara and Warren clearly weren’t home to take care of it, but they would be upset if they returned to find their damn cat suffering from dehydration in addition to feline anxiety. 

That done, Battle returned to his inspection of the house. 

The next door he opened turned out to be Mara’s room. Bed unmade. Piles of laundry on the floor. Dresser drawers hanging open, clothes poking out. Sliding closet doors misaligned with their track so that they didn’t move. Hangers tangled up in other hangers. Ten years later, and Mara Peace-Battle was still the least domestic person he knew. Battle kinda wanted to just start cleaning. Pick up the floor. Put the laundry in the hamper. Fix the damn closet! Get those hangers untangled so that her close didn’t get any more wrinkles. Make the bed… 

Battle’s eyes fell to the bed. 

Mara always continued to send him letters. Every week. Without fail. She never forgot him. She sent him photos of her and their son, and tokens of her affection, and… less wholesome pictures for his sole pleasure. But… Mara was still a very attractive woman. She had needs. And Battle wasn’t around to fulfill those needs. He wondered… staring at her unmade bed with its rumpled sheets, pillows handing half out of their cases, metal bedframe with horizontal bars on the headboard that one could easily tie a person to. Did she ever… did she ever invite anyone to her bed?

She would be well within her rights to. Of course! He wasn’t around and Mara had some very particular tastes. If she found someone who could satisfy her while her husband was away –forever, for all she knew- then she should find comfort and companionship where she could. 

But… the idea still made Battle’s blood rise. 

Mara was free to have boyfriends and lovers while he was locked up. But… if Battle ever met said boyfriends or lovers… He didn’t know what he’d do. 

He decided to push the thought from his mind and resolved never to ask Mara about it. What she did in her own home while he was gone was her business and none of his. She had no way of knowing he’d return. Hell! He didn’t even know he’d return. As far a Battle believed prior to last night’s quake, he would outlive both his wife and his son. They would both be dust before his chance of parole came up. 

Battle exited Mara’s room. 

Warren’s room was the one closer to the kitchen door. 

Warren, it seemed, had retained the habits about cleanliness that Battle tried to drill into him. The floor was clear. The closet and the dresser drawers were closed. Books were on the shelf. All posters on the walls at right angles. The bed was unmade, but Warren was still a teenager and lead a busy life, so that could be forgiven. 

Battle did note a box of tissues and a fire extinguisher on the bedside table, and he had to wonder what exactly his son did when he was alone in his room. Ah… teenage boys and their shenanigans…

Exiting the room, Battle closed the door behind him. 

It was pretty clear that neither Warren, nor Mara were home. But now he had no idea where to look for them. They were both heroes. Well, Mara was a hero, Warren was still young and hadn’t quite figured out how hypocritical and shallow that side was yet. He was still young. He could make a different decision. But both of them would be out. In the city. Trying to help the poor scared mundanes and ‘serve the greater good’. Battle rolled his eyes. 

Crossing his arms over his chest, Battle considered what he should do now. 

Maxville was a big place and he didn’t much like the idea of wandering the streets aimlessly hoping to just happen across one or both of them. He was more likely to run into Steve or Josie that way, and Battle did not want to cross paths with either of them if he didn’t have to. 

It had been a long time since he hunted. Looking for signs of his query. Tracking their movements through the evidence they left behind. Until he finally found them… Battle had never hunted a flyer before. What kinds of signs did a flyer leave behind? 

Mara sometimes left her shoes on the balcony. One time her purse. 

Warren should be easier to hunt. He didn’t fly. He would hunt Warren. 

The moment Battle came to this decision, he heard keys jingle in the lock of the security screen on the front porch. 

…or he could just wait for one of them to come home. That worked too. 

The door swung open and there was Flamebird standing in the doorway. Haloed in sunlight filtering down through the canopy of vines outside. 

She was keeping her hair short these days. In a cute little pixie-bob that looked sassy, and made Mara seem younger than she was. The mask was the same. Brightly colored liquid latex, only covering the upper half of her face. She still wore red lipstick in her hero uniform, it made Battle want to run up and kiss her. The costume covered far more than her old ones did. High collared, long sleeved, it covered her belly all the way down, long pants disappearing into high-top boots –flat heeled boots, no more stilettoes apparently. Every inch of her below the neck was covered. But the suit was so tight, it might as well have been painted on. Everything was covered, but it still displayed the shape of her breasts, the narrow V of her waist, the wide curve of her hips. Her costume covered her completely, but it was so tight, she might as well have been naked. 

“Barron…” She muttered, reaching a hand up to take off her mask.

“Sparky,” he began, “I understand you might be mad. But-“

Battle didn’t get the chance to finish whatever it was he was going to say. Mara flew across the room, colliding her body with his, sending them both falling against a wall. Battle suddenly found himself pinned between a flat surface of drywall and a –very warm- hero’s body. Mara pressed her lips to his, her tongue forcing his mouth open. Before Battle even knew what was going on, he was making out with his wife as if the past ten years of separation had never happened, Warren was at a sleepover at someone else’s house, and they didn’t have to worry about censoring themselves around a child. Lips intertwined, tongues sliding together, hands drifting down to places hand should only be going with expressed permission…

When Mara finally pulled her mouth away, Battle blinked down into her bright hazel eyes. She didn’t wear makeup under her mask, so Battle could see the crows feet, and stress wrinkles that had formed over the last decade, make all the more apparent by dark circles from lack of sleep. She wouldn’t have slept since the quake, would she. No, Mara was always about helping those that couldn’t help themselves, and damn the personal expense. 

Her lipstick was smeared and Battle knew a good portion of it had to be sloppily spread over his own mouth. “That… that wasn’t the ‘hello’ I was expecting.”

She smiled up at him. Lips stretching into the mischievous smirk that always meant she was about to give him a hard time. “What kind of ‘hello’ were you expecting?”

Battle gave a shrug. “’I can’t be harboring a fugitive in my house. Get the fuck out.’”

“I don’t use the f-word.” That was a bold faced lie, and they both knew it. She dropped the f-bomb almost as much as he did –just, not usually while she was in costume. 

“Where’s Warren?” Battle asked instead. 

Mara pulled away from him, suddenly no longer playful and flirtatious. She bit the nails of her ungloved hand, looking off to the side and not at her husband. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen Warren since before the quake. And I just heard that the Commander might have just left him somewhere.”

Battle frowned. “Why would Steve be in a position to leave my son anywhere? Why would Warren even be with Steve in the first place?” 

He asked this, already knowing that his son and Steve’s son were friends. The boys could have been hanging out together when the quake hit. Then Steve could have taken his own boy off to be big damn heroes and left Warren behind to fend for himself in the broken city. 

Mara was still avoiding eye-contact when she told him, “Steve is Warren’s mentor. He was supposed to pick Warren up after his culinary class let out, then they were gonna go do hero things.”

“What!?” If Battle’s back hadn’t already been up against a wall he would have backed up several paces. “What dumbass motherfucker decided on that!? Putting Steve Stronghold in charge of my son! And Warren already failed his first internship! What’re they gonna do to him when Stevie flunks him too? If the Commander says he can’t be trusted, then nobody’s gonna fucking trust him to rescue a cat!”

“You sound like you want him to be a hero now.” To spite the fact that she was still worried about her son, that smirk was back on Mara’s face. 

“I want my son to be accepted and happy with whatever side he chooses.” Battle informed her. “He’s clearly chosen the inferior side, but there’s no accounting for taste.”

Mara just continued to smile at him. 

“Stop giving me that look!” He flushed. She always managed to have this effect on him. Getting him all flustered and wound-up. 

Her smile widened. “You want him to be a hero.”

“No I don’t!” Battle could feel his face turning red. “I’m very disappointed in him! It’s an insult to my villain pride!” 

“Uh-huh.” Mara did not believe him for a second. 

For as long as she’d known him, Barron Battle always claimed that he never wanted to be a hero. Yet, whenever the city was threatened, or just the parts of Downtown he frequented, Battle rose to the occasion to protect those places. He claimed he was just protecting the Home Ground, his base of operations. That every supervillain should protect their seat of villainy and those that didn’t got defeated easily. It was completely self-serving. Nothing altruistic about it. He wasn’t a hero. Nope. He was a villain, through and through. He would never be a hero. He never wanted to be a hero. 

Over the course of several months (over a year?) of dating, she finally managed to figure out that what Barron actually meant when he said he never wanted to be a hero, was that he never wanted to be a hero like his father was. Hardwin Battle, the hero known as ‘Paladin’. Mara never met the man. He disappeared before she met Barron. But from what she understood, he was not a good father and made Barron’s early home life practically unlivable. Barron being young at the time, associated what Hardwin was like out of costume with what it meant to be a hero and vowed to never become like that. He was insistent on becoming a villain because, in his mind, heroes were cruel hypocrites. 

At least, that’s what he believed until he started dating her. Mara broke all his personal conceptions of what heroes were like, and he broke a lot of her conceptions of what villains were like. 

Not a lot of people in the super community –both hero and villain alike- didn’t really understand their relationship. Most insisted that one was manipulating or using the other. Other’s viewed it as nothing more than an ill-advised affair fueled by sexual attraction, and had just lasted longer than most. But it wasn’t any of that. Well… Maybe a little the sexual attraction. They were both very attractive people. 

But the core of their relationship was the fact that they showed each other views of the world that were different from their own. They broke misconceptions, defied conventions, and reminded each other that people on the other side were still people. Hero or villain. Everyone had a childhood and a past, filled with events that shaped them, and lead them down the path they took. Hero or villain, everyone was just a damaged individual trying to make sense of the world. 

Desperate to put this line of conversation to an end, Battle cleared his throat. “We need to find our son.”

“Right.” She agreed, backing up enough so that Battle was no longer pressed flush against the wall. He was the villain, why was he always the one being pinned against flat surfaces? Mara looked him up and down, noting the kaki jumpsuit of an inmate from Max Pen. “You need to change first. Every hero in the city is gonna be looking for that uniform.”

Battle looked down at himself. “I suppose after ten years it’s too much to hope that some of my old clothes would still be hanging around. What size is Warren? Maybe I could borrow something of his.”

“You and Warren are the exact same size.” Mara informed him. “And I know this because he fits into the clothing of yours that I’ve saved. He wore your wedding tux to prom.”

Did she sound angry when she said that? Why would she be angry? It was practical to reuse things. Tuxedoes were expensive and formal events few and far between. Why not get as much use out of an existing tux rather than buy or rent a new one. Why would Mara be mad? Unless… “Would this be the prom where Steve’s brat stole his girlfriend?”

Mara scoffed. “Layla was never Warren’s girlfriend. She was just using him to get to the Stronghold boy.”

Okay, she definitely, definitely sounded bitter right there. 

Battle opened his mouth to comment. To remind his wife that their son seemed to still like this girl very much and that out of respect for Warren’s choice, they should make an effort to be nice to her. 

Then Battle decided that he did not want to have that conversation right now. Not when they didn’t even know where their son was, if he was safe, if he needed help. First, they needed to find Warren. Then they could argue to their heart’s content over his taste in romantic partners. 

“So… clothes?” He asked instead. 

Mara lead him back into her bedroom. Flying up to the ceiling she opened a panel and a ladder slid down. Ignoring the ladder, she flew up into the attic. Battle heard her rummaging and rearranging things up there. If she organized her storage the same way she organized her room, it was a mess up there. 

“I’ll just wait down here.” He called up to her. Battle didn’t wanna risk making a comment that would get him burned in the face. 

He occupied himself by folding the clothing that was hanging out of her open drawers and rearranging things enough for the drawers to close. He picked up the laundry from her floor and threw it in the hamper –the hamper was empty. He was about the start untangling the hangers in the closet when Mara came back down. It was a fucking miracle that what she was holding was actually folded! 

Probably because it was still sealed in an old evidence bad. There was a large red sticker across the label that red ‘RELEASE TO FAMILY’ on it in bold, all capital letters. She passed the evidence bag to Battle with a smile. 

“They finally gave it back to me after your trial, and I thought maybe-“ She cut herself off mid-thought. “Did you tidy-up in here?”

“No.” He lied. Shaking his head. “It was always this clean.” (It was still very messy by his standards.)

Mara huffed. “You and your OCD.”

“Keeping piles of things off the floor is not a compulsive disorder.” Battle reminded her, sounding weary. “People who can’t fly tend to like not tripping on things.”

She smacked the evidence back into his chest. “Just change, and let’s get going. I wanna find my son and I don’t have the patience to get back into never-ending arguments with you.”

He really, really, really, wanted to remind her that it was a stupid thing to argue about, and that there wouldn’t have to be an argument if she would just put the clothing in the hamper when she took it off. Don’t leave a tail of fabric from her door, as she shed and dropped while walking. It’s not that hard! But she was right. Now was not the time to revisit that old argument. The city had just suffered a cataclysm and their only child was out there somewhere in that destroyed city and neither of them knew where. They had bigger things to worry about than differing levels of cleanliness. 

Ripping open the seal on the evidence bag, Battle pulled out a folded leather shirt-vest. All black. Boiled leather. Polished to an almost satiny shine. Embossed with a shield and crossed swords symbol, a whole stabbed through it. Almost center of the symbol. Other holes perforating the whole torso. It was Battle’s costume. The costume he wore the day Steve and Josie took him down. 

Pulling of the stained white shirt he was wearing, Battle slipped the leather vest over his head. Adjusting the buckles on the sides since it seemed a bit tighter than it used to be. Battle told himself the leather had shrunk while in storage. He couldn’t have gained weight. No. Just because he was confined to a small cell, didn’t get much physical exercise, and spent the majority of his time laying on a cot reading old letters. He was getting fatter. No. The leather was getting smaller. That was it. Yeah. 

Mara placed a hand to his chest, feeling over the holes stabbed into the chest of the costume. “I heard what Stronghold did to you, but…”

“I’m fine, Sparky.” He told her, taking both hands in his. He moved her fingers to his wrist where she could feel his pulse. “See. Heartbeat and everything.”

She looked up at him, hazel eyes wide as they met his deep brown ones. “Did it hurt?”

Yes. A lot. Dying fucking sucks! “It’s not a big deal.”

“We never really talk about your powers. Are you immortal?” She pressed. 

“I don’t think so…” He admitted. “I mean… I managed to kill my father and he’s still dead.” A pause. “I hope.”

Mara pursed her lips. They talked about Paladin even less than they talked about his powers. 

“Sparky, it’s not a big deal.” Battle said again. “We need to find Warren before another escapee does. Do you know who else escaped, by the way? It was kinda ‘every man for himself’ at the time. I don’t know who else got out.”


	10. Random Encounter

Since her own mentor seemed to have abandoned her, Layla tagged along with Magenta and Titan. The trio had a copy of the list of escapees from Max Pen, their names, which were mundane, which were super, and what their powers were. 

They left City Hall on foot. Walking through Downtown. 

To Layla’s eyes, the damage didn’t look much different from Max Adj. If she hadn’t seen both parts of the city before the quake, should would have thought they were exactly the same. Sidewalks upturned, streets cracked open, buildings partially collapsed, street lights and telephone poles fallen over. Actually, Max Adj probably looked better than Downtown did. At least they didn’t have fissures opened up to cut through the streets or pull structures down. Downtown must have been closer to the epicenter. Everything in Downtown looked damaged. 

Everything except one building. 

The Spear rose up above every other building in Downtown, even ones that had previously been taller than it. Perfectly vertical and straight. Not listing like any of its neighbors. Not a single window cracked. The lights were out, but then, the power in the whole city was out, so of course the building would be dark. 

Layla peered up at it, marveling at the construction. It must have been a very expertly planned and designed building for it to withstand a quake that had –for all intents and purposes- leveled the rest of the city. 

As Layla stared up at the building, she saw a large figure leap off the roof of the Spear and into the air. Not a jumper. A flyer. Except, the proportions were all wrong. The figure was large, but the form was that of two people, not one. One flyer, that was strong enough to carry a second person bridal style. Squinting Layla managed to make out a man dressed all in black being carried by another man. Shorter, and clad in white, blue, and red. The Commander and Jetstream’s colors. That meant the flyer had to be Will. If the flyer was Will, then then Man-in-Black had to be Warren!

As the pair passed over head, Layla tried waving at them. 

When Will passed right over them, not seeing her, she used her powers to grow a tree right there in the middle of the street. Standing in one of the high boughs so that it carried her into the air as it grew. Layla pulled a bright red apple off a branch and threw at Will’s retreating back to get their attention. 

Her aim was good and she had a strong throwing arm for someone of her size. Layla’s apple struck Will right between the shoulder blades. 

He paused mid-flight. Hovering in the air. His passenger catching the apple that had bounced off his back. 

It was indeed Will who stared back at her, wide-eyed and surprised. With Warren in his arms, holding her bright red apple in his hands. His mask made it impossible to read his expression, but it was clear from the way his lips were parted slightly, making his mouth form a small O, that he was equally as surprised. 

“Layla?” Will asked. “What are you doing here?”

“Where’s my mother?” Warren followed up almost immediately. 

With the phone lines still down, he wouldn’t have spoken to her since before the quake. Mara didn’t know where he was. That was why she flew off the moment she heard her son was no longer with the Commander. Of course, Warren would be equally as concerned, seeing his mother’s protégé without his mother. 

“Where are the Commander and Bedrock?” Layla shot back. Warren was fine but without his mentor. Warren should know that a seasoned hero like Flamebird could take care of herself. Plus, Flamebird could fly. Earthquakes tended to be less of a problem for people that could leave the earth miles below them. 

But Layla was surprised to find that Will was also flying around the city without his mentor. 

“I donno.” Will confessed. 

While at the exact same time, Warren supplied, “He left.”

Drifting over, Will landed on a tree branch that looked like it could hold his weight, and let Warren down. The fire user hugged the tree trunk for balance. He was not used to perching in trees like Layla, and didn’t have Will’s power of flight to give him the confidence to not fear a fall. It was a very tall tree, and –unlike his mother and his best friend- gravity actually had some hold on him. 

“So, what are you guys doing now?” She asked, thinking the way Warren clung to her tree was cute. 

“We were looking for-“ Will cut himself off abruptly, chancing a glance at their moody friend. “Did you hear about the break-out at Max Pen?”

“You can tell her, Stronghold.” Warren growled. “It’s Layla. She’d coax it out of us eventually anyway.” Still clinging to the tree, he chanced a glance at her, flashing a frown that didn’t quite go all the way down. It was a fake frown. For once, Warren Peace was not in a bad mood. If Layla didn’t know any better, she might even have called him ‘hopeful’. “My dad escaped. We’re looking for my dad.”

“Oh.” Layla didn’t know what kind of answer she was expecting. She already knew Barron Battle was among those who had escaped in the quake. That was another reason why her mentor left without her. “So’s your mom.”

“She is!?” Why did Warren sound surprised by that? No… not surprised… 

With that mask on, it was hard to fully read his expression. But the latex was soft and did move with his muscles. Pinching in the middle as his brows knit together, the line raising with his eyebrows. He wasn’t surprised he was… concerned? Why would Warren be concerned? Did he… did he think his parents might fight? Flamebird was a hero, after all. Barron Battle was a villain. Yes, they had a romantic relationship before. They were lovers. Warren came from their union. But that was before Mr. Battle went to prison. Could all of Flamebird’s odd reactions to Layla’s questions about him have been anger? Mara Peace trying to suppress anger at the mere mention of his name. Did she feel betrayed by her supervillain lover? Did she hate him? Was Warren worried his parents might hurt each other? 

Layla hesitated, unsure if she should say more for fear of causing her friend more concern. To spite the fact that he was a supervillain, Warren seemed to care about his father. At least, he always rose to defend the man’s honor whenever anyone brought up the subject of his villainy and incarceration. 

“She flew off the moment she heard he was out.” Layla decided there was nothing to be gained in withholding the information. It wasn’t like it wasn’t obvious. “She’s looking for him. Or for you. Or both of you. She said she was going to find ‘one or both’ of you.”

That only half-readable expression continued to stare at her, concerned. Warren’s fake frown from earlier morphing into a real frown. “She left you? By yourself!”

Warren grounded his teeth. 

Was he angry? Warren sounded angry. Layla felt he shouldn’t be angry at his mother. After all, as soon as he heard his father was out, he and Will did the same thing. Warren should not be angry. 

“I’m not alone.” She told them. “Magenta and Titan are with me.”

She pointed back down to the street where, sure enough, large and imposing Titan stood next to tiny and petite Magenta. They looked like a mouse and a lion, their difference in size was so great. And Titan was just at his base height, he wasn’t even using his powers of growth. 

Will flashed a goofy smile and waved down at them. 

Magenta and Titan offered hesitant and confused waves back. 

Warren did not offer friendly waves or smiles. His mouth was still set in a serious frown. “Since no one tried to follow her, can I assume that you’re out looking for the rest of the escapees?”

“Yeah.” Layla nodded. “That’s exactly what we’re doing. But-“ she paused, unsure “-I could help you find your parents if you want.”

Warren’s lips parted, a silent ‘no’ half formed. But he paused. Three sets of eyes were better than two and Layla thought in ways and patterns that he and Will did not. Warren was not the one to come up with their fake-dating plot to emotionally manipulate Will. Will was not the one who spent years with feelings for which there was no outlet. Layla was. She was a lot like Warren’s mother in those respects. A woman who spent years suppressing emotions she could not express. A kind person who was capable of unkind actions. 

Instead, the pyrokinetic pursed his lips. He took a moment to really think about his mother on the hunt for her estranged husband. Unlike him, she knew what contacts his father used to find jobs. She could check in with them. She knew places he would hang around between jobs. She knew people he associated with. Things, and places, and people one did not involve their child in. Things Warren wouldn’t know. Flamebird had a much better chance of finding Barron Battle than Warren did. 

It had been years since they’d seen each other. But Mara still carried the torch for him. If she found him first, their first action would not be some big climactic fight to apprehend Battle and bring him back to prison. Nor to combine forces and get revenge on the Commander (Warren believed his mother could go either way, and that was a concerning thought in and of itself). No. Mara Peace and Barron Battle’s first impulse upon reuniting would be to… eh… show how much they missed each other... reaffirm their love for each other…

Warren felt his face burn when this thought occurred to him and he wondered if his head was truly on fire, or if he was just blushing really badly. 

…

Dad knelt in front of the bedroom door. He was kneeling to be on eye-level with Warren. This was a Serious Dad type conversation. He showed the boy a tie he hung on the door knob.

“See this, Little Soldier.” He said. 

“Your tie?” Warren was confused. 

The previous night, he’d had a nightmare and come into his parents’ room for comfort and safety. Only Mom and Dad had not been sleeping when he opened the door without knocking, and walked in. It looked like they had been… well, he actually wasn’t sure what it was they had been doing. It looked like wrestling, except they weren’t wearing their pajamas. And they got really, really mad as soon as they realized he was there. 

“That’s right.” Dad nodded, bringing Warren’s attention back to the tie. “When you see this on the door, that means your mom and I are having Special Mom and Dad Time and you shouldn’t come in. Now, obviously, if you need us, we’ll come help you. But you have to knock! Special Mom and Dad Time is just for your mom and I, and you can’t be walking in on it. Okay?”

“Okay.” Warren nodded. He would not open his parents’ door when Dad’s tie was on the knob. 

After that, the tie seemed to appear on the door after every time Dad came back from one of his jobs. Mom and Dad seemed to take their special time right after Dad came home. Any time they were apart for a while, as soon as they were reunited, it was Special Mom and Dad Time. 

…

“You okay there, bud?” Will asked. 

“What?” Warren blinked at them from behind his mask, fully aware that everything not covered by the mask was either on fire, or covered in a significant blush. 

“Layla offered to help us look for your dad, then you just turned really red.” Will explained. 

“I didn’t mean to make you mad.” Layla assured him, completely misinterpreting the reaction. 

Warren’s throat was oddly dry and he found himself having to work some moisture back into it before he could speak. “If- if Mom’s gone after him, we… don’t need to find them right away.”

“What?” Will sounded almost personally insulted. What was he flying his friend around for if not to be able to see his father before the man had to go back to prison? “Ten minutes ago you looked about ready to cry if you didn’t get to see your dad! Now, all of a sudden, ‘we don’t need to find him right away’!”

“I was not about to cry.” Now it was Warren’s turn to sound insulted. 

Layla took one of his hands in hers. Warren’s feet shuddered unsteadily on the bough he was perched on when she pulled him away from the trunk. But he didn’t object. For reasons beyond his understanding, he trusted Layla. As if she actually had the physical strength to keep him from falling. 

“Warren, if you wanna see your dad, we’ll help you.” She told him. Green eyes wide, innocent, and concerned. She looked up at him from under her hood. Expression open and earnest. She truly just wanted to help him. 

For some reason, that realization made Warren’s heart beat faster. 

He pulled his hand out of her grip. “We are three heavy hitters. We can’t all just drop our responsibilities in favor of a personal quest. My father is just one man. All the other criminals that escaped might end up doing more damage than him if we ignore them.”

As much as both of them didn’t want to admit it, Warren did have a point. He was just always full of intelligent insights and advice. When he found Layla sitting alone and abandoned at the Paper Lantern, he gave her insights about herself she didn’t even know. When he found Will sitting in the same booth looking guilty and forlorn, he was full of helpful and constructive advice. As much as they hated to admit it, Warren was right. 

Barron Battle was just one man. There were over thirty other convicts that escaped with him. They could not ignore them in favor of spending all their time and energy on one man. 

Both Layla and Will hated it when Warren was right. He had somehow become the brains of their trio. 

The worst part was that Warren wasn’t even smug about it. He was always too moody and broody to be smug. 

“I have a list.” Layla announced in her best ‘I think this is helping’ voice. 

“I already know Gwen is one that escaped.” Will added. 

“Not just Royal Pain.” Layla nodded. “But Lash, and Speed, and Penny, and Stitches, too.”

She did not sound very worried. But then, why would she be? They managed to defeat Royal Pain and all her henchmen when she was a freshman. That was when Gwen-Sue had years to prepare and execute her evil plan. How big of a threat could she and her crew be now? Escaped from prison, unexpectedly for everyone. No time to plan. No equipment. Making things up as she went along. Royal Pain and her crew wasn’t a threat. 

Warren seemed to share her opinion, because he flashed a mocking grin. “Now, Stronghold, try not to make out with the old lady supervillain this time.”

“Oh my gawd, Warren! I didn’t know she was a supervillain!” Will snapped. It had been years, but reminders still got him flustered. 

“Or that she’s old enough to be your mom.” The older man continued to jeer. Of course, her age would be the thing Warren wouldn’t let him live down. It would be hypocritical for him to tease a hero about making out with a villain. After all, he was the product of a superhero and a supervillain doing much more than just making out. 

Will made a sound that was probably supposed to be a groan, but it kinda sounded a little bit more of a sob. This was something he was never going to live down. It was a story Warren would find a way to work into his Best Man speech at Will’s wedding. He was having visions of the future, a room full of friends, family, and distant relatives, and Warren Peace standing up talking about how happy he was for Will for finally finding a woman to love who wasn’t a fifty-year-old supervillain in a teenage girl’s body. Will thought he might cry on his future-counterpart’s behalf. 

“You okay there, Stronghold?” Asked the pyrokinetic. 

Before Will could answer, Magenta shouted up at them from the street. Reminding everyone that there were more pressing matters to attend to than teasing Will Stronghold over one short episode of youthful indiscretion that wasn’t even his fault.

“Hey!” Called the shapeshifted up from the street. Her hands cupping around her mouth to make sure the sound carried up to where they were. “If you’re done with your threesome, maybe we could get back to work!”

All three of them blushed. Will and Layla had dated for a while between their freshman and sophomore years. They tried kissing, and they tried ‘advanced kissing’ –that was kissing with open mouths and tongues- and they decided that it did not feel right for them. They loved each other. But platonically. More as siblings. They grew up together. Anything more than hand-holding and hugging felt wrong to them. If there was going to be any sexy play going on up in the tree, it would be between Layla and Warren, or Will and Warren. Not all three. Will and Layla just couldn’t see each other that way. 

“We’re not having a- Whoa!“ 

Warren’s angry shout was cut off when Will wrapped an arm around each friend and jumped down out of the tree. 

On the ground now, Warren turned to the side, arms crossed over his chest. Not looking anyone in the eyes. He was trying to project an image of confidence, but detachedness. Like, it didn’t concern him how many bad guys were now stalking the streets of Maxville, he could take them all down. Unfortunately for Warren, it did not come off that way. Instead, he just looked like a moody punk-ass kid with an attitude problem. 

Magenta rolled her eyes at him. “I see Warren’s on his period again. I guess someone already mentioned Daddy.”

The pyrokinetic made a low snarling sound that might have had a curse word buried in it somewhere. But all anyone heard was a moody boy with daddy-issues making guttural throat noises as if anyone was still intimidated by him. They all knew him. Warren Peace wasn’t a feral wolf. He was an adorable little hissing kitten. All hiss, but too sweet and wholesome to back-up the threat. 

“Their mentors left them too.” Layla informed her friend, and Titan whom was still standing next to Magenta. His massive bulk cast a shadow over all four young heroes. To most people, Layla imagined that was very intimidating, but to her it just made him seem like a tree. Tall, firm, and stable. She offered a diplomatic smile. “Since all three of us are now without mentors, I was thinking we could team-up to patrol the city.”

“Uh-huh.” Magenta crossed her arms over her chest. The core trio of their group wanted to go off on their own. 

Titan however, did not look quite so skeptical. One enormous hand stroking the lower half of his face in thought. His eyes swept over each member of the trio, assessing and measuring. Titan knew Barron Battle before he was arrested. They had been placed at odds with each other more than once, but also –and Titan would never confess this to a room full of heroes- placed together on the same side when Battle’s jobs and the country’s interests aligned with each other. That was the thing with supers for hire and supers that worked for governments, private profits and political interests often intersection regardless of popular ethics. 

“Your father is one of the ones that escaped.” Titan informed Warren. He didn’t really know the boy. Titan knew Battle had a family, the man might have been expendable (from a government perspective), but that didn’t mean they didn’t keep tabs on him. But the Matches was the first time Titan ever actually saw the boy. They had never spoken. Before Warren could answer, Titan turned his attention to Will Stronghold, the Commander’s son. Another he’d never actually spoken to before. “And your father is the one who put him away.”

Somehow, these two boys –these two young men- managed to become friends. 

“Are you implying we can’t do our jobs because of personal conflicts of interest?” Warren asked. He was trying to sound hostile, but mostly it just came out sounding tired. Like this was an argument he’s had before –many times before, different people, same argument- and was sick of it. 

Titan regarded them cautiously. Staring down at them. A seasoned soldier sizing up younger, greener, less experienced recruits. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. But whatever he saw in Warren and Will, he must have approved be cause he turned a much warmer gaze to Layla. Offering an almost grandfatherly smile. “Keep these two out of trouble, okay.” He told her. “They don’t know what’s good for them.”

Uncrossing his arms, Warren took a half-step towards Titan as if about to challenge the older man. 

But Layla placed a pacifying hand on his arm. She offered a cheerful smile up at Titan. “I’ll keep an eye on them.” She promised. Her other arm she hooked on Will’s elbow and dragged both men away. “Let’s get going, you two.”

…

Just the three of them, Layla realized this was the first time she’d actually seen Warren since the Matches. 

“So, how was it with Mr. Stronghold?” She asked. Will’s dad was always nice to her. Like a favorite uncle. But they were neighbors and she practically grew up with the Strongholds. Warren, however, came from a completely different perspective. Steve Stronghold was not a fun uncle. For him, Steve Stronghold was the man who tore his family apart. 

“You should call him the Commander when we’re in costume.” Growled the pyrokinetic, sounding very much like his mother in that moment. “And it was fine. He’s… he’s awkward. He doesn’t actually know what he’s doing, but he’s trying and I guess that’s worth something.” 

“He always asks about you, ya know.” Will added. 

Behind his mask Warren raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Since we became friends. After prom when you helped us save everyone.” Will didn’t really elaborate much. “Dad knew we were friends, but the first time you came over to my house, the moment Dad came home you ran scared-“

“I did not run scared!”

“-and you always seem to have an excuse not to come over.” Will continued as if the other man hadn’t objected. “It’s pretty obvious to everyone that you were avoiding my dad. But you and I are tight, and Dad sees that, even if he doesn’t see you, and I think he feels guilty that my best friend feels uncomfortable to be around him. He knows why, and he understands, and that makes him feel bad.”

Oh, how terrible for him. The Commander feels bad! Boo-hoo. Jeered a voice in Warren’s head that sounded suspiciously like his father’s. 

Layla chewed on her lower lip. “Sometimes superheroes don’t consider all the consequences of their actions.”

She was thinking about her own mentor, Warren’s mother, glassing the North Hills with her power to prevent a landslide. Yeah, she saved Max Adj. Prevented countless loss of human life and insurmountable property damage. There was no denying that. It was a heroic action. But it also thoroughly and completely destroyed the ecosystem. Burned the vegetation, melted the soil, erased burrows and nests of animals, killed the plants they fed on, displaced prey and predators alike. Layla would not be surprised if bunnies and coyotes started invading people’s yards in the coming weeks. Sometimes, heroes just don’t think about the long term in the heat of the moment. Sometimes they only care about the immediate solution. 

“Most superheroes don’t have to suffer consequences for their actions.” Warren pointed out. “That’s what the masks and secret identities are for. To escape consequences.”

He was imagining property damage liability and lawsuits for pain and anguish. 

“That’s not what your mom said.” Layla informed him. “She said it was to protect our families. So that children don’t have to suffer consequences for their parent’s actions.”

Warren only snorted with derision. That hadn’t worked out so well for him. 

“Guys, guys, a secret identity can do more than one thing.” Will contributed, hoping to diffuse the conversation before Warren decided to get angry and turn it into an argument. 

He needn’t have bothered, Warren seemed intent to just change the subject. “My mother…” He began. “She’s been nice to you, right? She hasn’t been mean?”

“No, your mom’s great!” Layla assured him. From what she had seen, Layla was convinced that Mara Peace didn’t have a mean bone in her body. True, she’d only really known the woman for a couple of days. But in that time, they really only had one disagreement. Aside from that, Flamebird had been nothing but nurturing and encouraging, full of helpful advice for future hero’ing, and empathetic and caring to the mundanes around them. The only time she ever seemed less than happy and friendly was when Layla mentioned Barron Battle. 

“Good.” Warren nodded. A sort of stinted nod, almost as if he didn’t really believe it. “That’s good. You’ll tell me if she gets mean, right.”

“Why would she get mean?” Layla blinked at him from under her hood. 

“She…” he trailed off, not sure how to answer “…she’s had to accept some things…”

Both Layla and Will assumed he was talking about her lover being arrested as a supervillain and thrown in prison effectively forever. Neither of them even imagined he could actually be talking about his friendship with them being the thing Mara Peace had to bitterly accept. 

Her son becoming best friends with the son of the man who took her lover from her. Her son maintaining a friendship with a woman who –from Mara’s point of view- used Warren in a ploy to seduce the Stronghold boy. But they were Warren’s friends, not hers, and Warren had had so few –none at all, actually- before Layla Williams and Will Stronghold came along. She was glad Warren finally had friends again. He hadn’t had true friends since he was nine years old. She just didn’t like who those friends were. But, for her son, she had to accept them. 

“Okay, well, she’s not mean.” Layla was almost defensive of her mentor. Unlike Warren who was hot and volatile, Mara Peace was warm and comforting. After more reflection, Layla decided they were both like fire. Just different aspects of fire. Like Will said secret identities could do more than one thing, fire could be more than one thing too. 

“So, the Commander’s awkward, and Flamebird’s not mean.” Warren summarized. “How’s Bedrock? Ya know, I never even asked why you weren’t with your mentor.”

Will opened his mouth to answer. But before he got the chance, he was hit in the side by something. It knocked him off his feet and sent him flying across the street to impact an already cracked wall of a building. 

Layla ran to Will’s side. Warren lit his arms of with flames, and turned his attention in the direction the attack had come from. 

Coming out of the shadow of a partially collapsed wall leaning on the building next to it. The figure of a person. Long haired and long bearded, as if they hadn’t held a razor in years. Average height but slight of build. Long slender limbs making him look almost spider-like. …And wearing the kaki jumpsuit of a maximum security prisoner of Maxville Penitentiary. 

“Don’t recognize any of you.” He said. “But that one’s dressed like the Commander.”

“You don’t have to provide unsolicited information about your motivations!” Warren shouted –sounding more frustrated with the villain than protective of his friend- as he shot a fireball at the criminal. 

The criminal dodged the ball of fire, body moving in an odd way. Bending at the waist at an angle most humans were not meant to bend and tilting his torso out of the path of the flaming projectile. Not curving his body like Lash would have done. This guy wasn’t a stretch-super, but he was clearly more bendable than a mundane. 

At Will’s side, Layla had the paper with the list of escapees in her hands. “That’s Rubin Singer.” She announced. “The supervillain Slingshot.”

Warren scoffed. “Never heard of you. You must not be an A-list villain.”

Slingshot looked Warren up and down. Young, dressed all in black with just the slightest bit of red piping outlining the lines of his muscles. Kevlar plates protecting the most vulnerable areas of his costume. No emblem to identify him, but fire powers that could be highly destructive if they actually connected with their target. 

“What about you?” Slingshot fired back. “What kind of villain are you, hanging out with baby heroes like this?”

“What? I’m not a villain!” Warren snarled so loud his voice almost cracked. Neither Will or Layla had ever heard their friend so insulted in all the four years they’d known him. 

“You’re dressed like a villain.” Slingshot pointed out. All that black and red, definitely a traditional villain uniform. 

“I am not- Black is practical! It doesn’t show stains, or- I don’t have to justify myself to you!” Both arms on fire, Warren charged at the supervillain. Throwing fire balls as well as flaming punches. 

Slingshot dodged them all. Jumping, twisting, and bending his body in ways that a person didn’t normally move. Because he didn’t move like an average person, Warren found it difficult to predict him. 

“War- uh, Fire, he’s just trying to make you mad!” Layla shouted. It was absurdly easy to get Warren mad. 

“War Fire?” Echoed Slingshot with a mocking smile. “Even your name sounds like a villain.”

“That’s not my name!” None of them had chosen hero names yet. That being said, ‘War Fire’ was definitely not even on Warren’s list of possibilities. 

Jumping slightly, Warren threw his burning body at the villain. The man caught him in the crook of the elbow, and Warren felt it bend against his weight. Then it snapped back, suddenly very fast, and Warren was propelled across the street to land against the same already cracked wall Will was slumped by. 

Well, that was why they called him ‘Slingshot’. 

“Great plan.” Will muttered to his friend. Groaned, really. Climbing to his feet, one arm hugging his side where a large chunk of cinderblock had been slungshot into his ribs. If all their time as partners during Save the Citizen taught him anything, it was that all planning and thought went out of Warren Peace’s head the moment someone implied he’d become a villain like daddy.

“Shut-up.” The pyrokinetic growled back. 

Slingshot stalked towards the trio, his eyes focusing on Will and Will only. A young man, barely out of his teens or still in his teens. Dressed head to tow in white, blue, and red, Jetstream and the Commander’s colors. With a stylized rampart emblem on his chest. It didn’t take a lot of brain power to figure out that this kid he didn’t recognize was related to the Commander. Possibly even the man’s son. What supervillain didn’t want to be the hard bastard that killed the Commander’s son? 

Standing on unsteady legs, Will sucked in a breath, testing his ribs where the cinder block hit him. The bones were buised, but not broken. He could still fight. 

Warren also pushed himself back to his feet. 

The boys were ready to start trying to beat each other up. 

Layla stepped between the villain and her friends. The street was already cracked, it took almost no effort to summon a tangle of vines up through the asphalt. Like she encircled and restrained Penny and all of her copies back in freshman year, Layla made the vines wrap themselves around Slingshot’s arms. Holding them back and away from his body, but not far enough back to trigger the snap-back of his sling shot superpower. 

Slingshot pulled against the restraints. Pulled hard, but she didn’t give him enough slack to reach the snap-back point. “What the fuck!?”

Both Will and Warren looked at Layla. 

“Men are always so violent.” She informed all of them. “There are plenty of solutions that don’t involve burning or bludgeoning each other.” 

Slingshot pulled against his restraints again. They did not give. 

“What do you want to do with your life?” Will asked, seriously. He and Layla were best friends. He knew she did not like using her powers to cause harm and she was a functional pacifist. She did not believe that violence solved problems, and she did not initiate fights. But she also understood that sometimes one needed to defend themselves against others who did start fights and believe in violence. But what kind of super-career could she build around that? “Like, after our internships. What do you wanna do with your powers?”

Under her hood, Layla blushed. “I, uh, I’ve been thinking of the increase in greenhouse gasses due –in part- to deforestation. I was thinking of going to Bolivia or Brazil and help regrow some of the rainforest that’s been clear cut.”

“A more pressing question,” Warren cut in, “what do we do with our fugitive now?”

Layla pulled a radio out of one of the pockets of her jacket. “Lucrezia in the Mayor’s office is handling all the logistics of the criminal sweep.” She explained. “I can radio her with Slingshot’s locations and she’ll send a team out to collect him.”

“So that’s all taken care of then.” Will smiled. Happy and optimistic. “I think our first altercation with a Level 1 bad guy went well.” 

Pulling harder against Layla’s vines, Slingshot snarled and spat color expletives at them. Apparently, he did not appreciate being called a ‘Level 1’ bad guy. 

Warren just rolled his eyes. If you were taken down by a rookie pacifist that didn’t even have a full week of superhero experience, then you were less than a Level 1 bad guy. More like a henchman, really. But he did not mention that out loud. Instead, in classic moody and broody fashion, the pyrokinetic just growled at his teammates. “Let’s keep moving.”

They took one fugitive down. Only thirty or so more to go.


	11. Things in Flux

There was a great deal more organization in and around City Hall than there had been earlier in the day when the Commander and Jetstream first arrived. 

Josie let Steve down on the sidewalk outside the building, right in front of a group of police and state troopers that were working together to process a small line of angry –and in some cases, beat up- men and women in the prison uniform of Max Pen. Mostly the bright orange of Gen Pop, the general population of the prison. Common criminals, small time thugs, the powerless and mundane criminal element of society. But there were a couple of kaki jumpsuits of Maximum Security. Where they filed the super powered criminals. Supervillains. 

Steve studied the faces of the prisoners. It had been ten years since he last saw the man, but he was sure he’d recognize Barron Battle’s face if he saw it. Wrinkles might form. Skin might sag. Facial hair might grow. But Barron always had the same eyes. Ever since high school. A rich dark brown. As rich in color and full of life as the woods he came from. The same eyes he passed on to his son. The same eyes as Warren. Steve would recognize Barron, even after not seeing him for ten years. 

None of those in custody were Barron Battle. He was still missing. Steve didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. 

Everyone looked up when they noticed the two most famous heroes in the world standing in their midst. Even the group of police bringing in another fugitive, wrapped in vines and wearing Max Sec kaki, they paused in what they were doing to note the heroes’ arrival. 

The Maximum Security prisoner, on the other hand, did not pause to gape at the heroes in awe. Unsurprisingly, a criminal that had been arrested and incarcerated by heroes did not gaze upon them with worship. Instead, he spat at the Commander. Hocking a thick mucusy loogie at the pair of heroes. 

“Hey! Commander!” He taunted. “I almost killed your brat!”

Jetstream stepped forward, concern clear and open on her face. No mother wanted to hear that their child was almost killed by a vindictive supervillain with a grudge against his father. 

Hearing the announcement, Lucrezia trotted up to the pair of heroes. “He’s fine.” She assured the other woman. “They’re fine. Your son, and angry fire user, and Flamebir’s protégé are working together.” She really wished these young new heroes would hurry up and pick names for themselves. She didn’t want to keep calling them ‘Son of the Commander and Jetstream’, ‘Angry Fire User’, and ‘Flamebird’s Plant Themed Protégé’. “Was your trip to the prison helpful?”

“Uh…” Steve did not gain as much insight as he hoped to. 

Always the more practical of the pair, Josie answered for him. “The Warden is ready to start receiving return prisoners. He’s got a makeshift holding pen set up. We can send them back to Max Pen as we catch them.”

“That’s good to hear.” Lucrezia breathed an audible sigh of relief. “We don’t have the facilities to hold them here.”

“Go ahead and start transporting them back to Max Pen.” Commanded the Commander with a nod –as if she needed his command, or even permission, on how to do things in her city. “Jetstream and I will hit the streets and round up the rest of them.”

He said ‘round up the rest of them’ but, really, Steve was only concerned with one of them. The one that couldn’t be hurt, couldn’t be killed, always swore his revenge. The one who’s child had befriended his own child and now that Steve knew they kept in contact, was beginning to doubt the sincerity of that friendship. 

Lucrezia nodded, taking his words at face value. “I understand you both have red phones, but a number of the younger heroes helping out are having to rely on radios.” She waved to someone not wearing any kind of uniform, a volunteer of some kind. Lucrezia pantomimed a phone and the volunteer nodded. They came running up with a spare radio. Lucrezia handed it to Jetstream. “This is already set for the channel we’re using. You can reach deputy-Mayor Kappur with your red phones, just about anyone else, you’ll need to raise on the radio.”

“Understood.” Jetstream clipped the radio to her belt. “Is there anything else?”

“Between all the teams of supers working together, we’ve managed to re-apprehend almost all of the non-super criminals from the break out.” Lucrezia informed him, brushing a strand of dark hair out of her face. “The only fugitives left are all supervillains or their henchmen. People with superpowers.” 

She wasn’t warning them to be careful, she was informing them that at this point local law enforcement wouldn’t be of much help. Both the Commander and Jetstream nodded their understanding. 

Josie floated off her feet, hooked her hands under Steve’s arms and lifted them both up into the air. 

“Take the radio off my belt.” She ordered once they were high enough to no be overheard by the people below. With her hands holding her husband, Josie couldn’t do it herself. “Call Will, make sure he’s okay.”

Steve did grab the radio, but he did not call out from it. “You want me to shout the name Will Stronghold all over an open channel on which countless people might be listening?”

Josie pursed her lips. No. She did not want him to shout their son’s secret identity all over an open radio channel. But she also needed to know that her baby and only child was safe. This was way bigger than just one villain having manipulated a bunch of kids to crash their own prom. The city was overrun by villains, most of whom had a grudge against her child’s father and had no reservations about punishing said child for his father’s actions. 

“We need to find our son, Steve.” She told him flat out. 

“Will will be fine.” Steve insisted in an ill-advised ‘you’re overreacting’ voice. “He’s got your flight and my strength, he’s smarter than me, and he’s not alone. You heard the Mayor’s aid: Warren and Layla are with him. He’ll be fine.” A pause. “I need to find Barron.”

Steve trusted Warren Peace to guard and support his son against any escaped villain in the city except one. Steve needed to find and take down Barron Battle before he crossed paths with the children and Warren was forced to make a choice between divided loyalties. Will wouldn’t fight his best friend and Barron had no reservations about killing.

“You don’t even know where he’d go.” Josie pointed out. 

“Yes we do.” Argued Steve. “C’mon, Josie, you saw that cell. All those letters and… pictures from Mara Peace. Since Barron hasn’t jumped out of the shadows and attacked me yet, we have to assume he’s looking for someone else. Who else would he be looking for besides the woman he was married to, who he had a child with, who continued to send him letters and tokens long after he went to prison. Barron will be looking for Mara.”

Josie pursed her lips. She chose to skip right over the part where Steve said they were married. No superhero had any business legally marrying a villain. If that were true, then Josie would lose even more respect for the other woman. “He could also be looking for Warren” she said instead “–who’s with Will.”

“He could be.” Steve admitted. If their positions were reversed and he were the one sent to prison for ten years, he would certainly want to see his son just as much as his wife upon an impromptu release. 

“All the more reason why we need to find our son first!” She all but snapped at him. 

Steve just shook his head. “Listen, Barron is a calculating bastard. He’s always been a calculating bastard. He won’t just go running off to a boy he hasn’t seen in ten years expecting to receive a warm welcome and a father-son villain team-up. He’s gotta know that –being raised among heroes- Warren would be conflicted. He’s not gonna go to him until he knows what kind of welcome he’s going to get. Mara, on the other hand, he does know he’ll receive a warm welcome from. He’ll go to her first. If for no other reason than she has a better idea of their son’s headspace than he does.”

Josie scoffed. She did not have a high opinion of Mara Peace. Any woman who could knowingly love a supervillain, even a hero –no, especially a hero- was a stupid woman. But she had to admit, Steve’s logic made sense. 

Changing their course, arching over the city, heading for Max Adj, Jetstream flew them to the Peace’s house. 

They landed in the empty driveway. Right next to the kitchen side door. There was a fist-sized hole in the decretive window with spider web fractures emanating from it, the shard of glass that still clung to the gap bowing inward. Clearly, someone had broken into Mara Peace’s house. That’s didn’t explicitly mean it was Barron Battle, but that didn’t stop Steve from casting a sideways glance at his wife as if to say, ‘I told you so’. 

Josie did not say anything in return. Just rolled her eyes as she opened the door. It was unlocked. 

Inside, there didn’t appear to be any signs of a struggle. The kitchen was clean. The only thing out of place was a steak knife in the sink with a few reddish-brown stains on its tip that looked suspiciously like blood. But it was a steak knife in a kitchen. That didn’t explicitly imply anything nefarious either. 

The rest of the house seemed similarly untouched by a struggle. The living room with its tacky red couch looked like it could use a good vacuuming, but the furniture was all in place and looked clean. There was a bit of daily-living clutter like a yellow cardigan sweater thrown over a chair, a stack of books on the coffee table, the couch’s throw blanket was piled on the cushions instead of folded neatly and arranged over the back of the couch. But these were just evidence of a mess, not of a struggled. If Barron Battle was here, he didn’t fight anyone. 

Warren’s room was similarly neat and clean –actually, it was neater than the living room. 

The only room that looked a mess was the master bedroom. Mara Peace’s room. The closet hanging open, tangled hangers poking out and bed unmade. Bed unmade with rumpled and messy sheets. 

“Well.” Josie huffed in disgust, resting her fists on her hips as she pursed her lips with disapproval. “I guess we know what Barron did as soon as he got out.”

Steve tried to hide a silent laugh behind his hand. A man locked in prison for ten years, with a super hot and sexy wife waiting for him on the outside… if their positions were reversed, Steve could see himself wanting the same thing upon his release. A release after his release. 

Out loud, he said, “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Give Mara the benefit of the doubt. For all we know, the room could always look like this.”

“What kind of grown adult doesn’t make her bed?” His wife shot back. 

Steve shrugged. “Who’s Mara got to try and impress?”

Josie gave another huff. Of course. The man jumps to the defense of the attractive woman who –apparently- had no standards when it came to choosing lovers. Crossing her arms over her chest, Josie walked around the room. Pausing at the opposite side of the bed to bend down and pick something up. 

She lifted up the kaki jumpsuit of a Maximum Security prisoner from Max Pen. Held it by the shoulders so that Steve could very clearly see the prisoner number. “Obviously, we can’t prove what else may or may not have happened here. But Barron was at least taking his clothes off next to Mara’s bed.” She let the uniform drop from her hands as if it were something disgusting that should not be handled. “But he’s clearly not here anymore. Neither is Mara. And, now we know he won’t be wearing his prison uniform anymore, so he’ll be harder to recognize.”

“I can recognize him.” Steve assured her. 

“Okay, but someone else just walking down the street won’t.” Josie informed her husband. “They won’t know how dangerous he is.”

…

Battle bent down to pick a flower. It was just a dandelion, a weed really. But it was a bright yellow and in full bloom. He presented the flower to his wife. “It’s not a bouquet of lilies.”

Taking the offered flower, Mara gave an amused smile and tucked it in her hair, just behind her ear. “You’re such a sentimental softy.” She bemoaned. Or rather, tried to bemoan. It was hard to convincingly show discontent when you were smiling like a fool. She hadn’t seen the man she loved in a decade and now that she was back she found she couldn’t stop smiling. Current circumstances be damned. Mara felt like something that was missing from her had been returned. Clearing her throat, Mara tried to get serious. “But it looks like Warren’s not here.”

Since Mara had no idea where her son was, only that the Commander had just abandoned him the moment he heard about the prison break, she decided to check all the places he frequented. The Paper Lantern, the public library (the one she didn’t work at, Warren was an avid reader but that didn’t mean he wanted to visit his mom at work), and the culinary sections of the Maxville University campus. 

It was the MU campus they were at now. 

“Then we should keep moving.” Battle nodded, looking around the quad. He spotted the histories and languages buildings and quickly look down at the ground. “My father used to teach here, ya know.”

“You told me.” Mara nodded, floating off her feet. “Two classes a week here, three classes a week at Save U.”

Hardwin Battle might have been the hero, Paladin, but his day-job was a teaching professor with doctorates in both medieval history and Middle English. His books ancient myths and deities, and superstition and hysteria being attributed to early superpowers were still used as textbooks at Save U today, almost thirty years after his disappearance. 

Mara hooked her hands under Battle’s arms and lifted her husband back into the air. “We’ll check the Paper Lantern next.”

“So, Warren works at the Paper Lantern.” Battle smirked, determined to focus on anything but memories of his own father. “That’s where we had our first date, ya know.”

“I remember. I told you I liked Asian food, so you took me there.” Mara wasn’t a particularly fast flyer, but so high up in the air, she still had to shout to be heard over the wind. 

“Hey, you told me I was taking you out on a date.” Battle would have shrugged if he weren’t being held by the underarms. “You didn’t leave much room for negotiation. I still can’t believe you just gave me your secret identity, phone number, and home address the first time we met. I totally could have just killed you!”

“I didn’t know you were a supervillain then, Barron.” She snarled the reminder. “In case you haven’t noticed, you don’t exactly have the standard-issue supervillain personality.”

“Mm.” He smiled fondly at a memory. “It was so hot how you burned my face off the next morning after you found out you’d just slept with a villain.”

Not a lot of people understood Barron Battle’s relationship with Mara Peace. 

Mara heaved an affectionate sigh. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too- Dodge!” Battle shouted.

“What-!?”

When Mara didn’t immediately take evasive maneuvers with her flying, Battle swung his body in her arms. Flinging himself between his wife and whatever it was he wanted her to dodge. 

A projectile hit him in the side. If his body hadn’t been in the way, it would have hit Mara in the chest. 

“Barron!” 

Battle closed a fist around the end of the projectile sticking out of him and pulled. It was long, and when it came out it pulled pulpy bits of flesh as well as blood out with it. There was a small spurt. His heart making one pump before the wound closed again. Battle’s body healing itself as if the attack never penetrated. 

He looked at it in his hands. Long. Wider at one end, pointed at the other. A slight spiral to it. Dark in color. But with a texture similar to bone. A horn of some kind. From a super that could grow and throw horns. Some super –most likely a villain- had just shot at his wife! And if Battle hadn’t thrown himself in the way, Mara would already be dead. 

“Drop me.” Battle growled at his wife. Nobody threatened the people he loved. 

“What?” Mara blinked back. Still more concerned for her husband’s well being than who had attacked them. 

“I said drop me.” Battle repeated. Snarled, actually. “Right now.”

Pursing her lips, still unsure, Mara relaxed her grip and let her passenger slip from her hands. Battle plummeted to the ground. Getting his feet under him, Battle braced for impact, making a loud THUMP sound when he hit the ground below. Bending at the knees before tumbling into a summersault to absorb the rest of the momentum. He jumped back to his feet almost on top of a super he’d never seen before. 

Wearing the kaki of a Max Sec prisoner, he must have been arrested and sentenced after Battle was confined to solitary. He knew all the guy that had been in with him when he was still allowed to mingle. This guy was new. 

Young. Well, everyone looked young to Battle now, he was almost fifty and age was relative. Late-twenties, maybe? Definitely younger than thirty. But with the receding hairline and pattern baldness of a man twice his age. The top of his scalp was smooth and shiny, his hairline starting somewhere around the ears. The hair that he did have was long and sleek. A chestnut brown that shone in the afternoon sun. He had a long face and a flat nose. But the most striking thing about him was the dark spiral horn sticking out of his forehead. A dark spiral horn almost identical to the one that impaled Battle, only smaller. 

“And who the fuck are you supposed to be?” Battle demanded. 

“You’re welcome.” Sai the other guy.

“What?” Battle blinked. Did he ask a different question than he thought he asked?

“That was cold blooded how that hero used you as a shield.” Commented baldy with the horn. “But you seem alright. Us villains gotta stick together, am I right?”

Battle just raised an eyebrow. “Do you know who I am?”

“Do you know who I am?” The other shot back. 

Now Battle was getting frustrated on top of protective and angry. “This is not a game of Who-The-Fuck-Are-You? That hero you just shot at, that’s my wife!”

Now the criminal looked unsure. He thought he was rescuing a fellow villain. After all, who else besides a supervillain would fly around the city dressed in all black. When he saw someone dressed in all black being carried by a hero, he assumed the hero had just captured him and was taking him to be processed. Not that they were having a Disney style musical montage while flying through the air –‘a whole new wo~orld…’ He had no idea what kind of romantic things heroes did. He just imagined them all as clean and family-friendly children’s protagonists. 

“You a hero?” The criminal raised an eyebrow. 

“Wow. Okay. First you attack my wife, now you insult me.” Battle hated being accused of being a hero. He hefted the horn that shot him in the side in his hand. The blood on it already dry, giving the horn an unsettling ruddy color. 

“What do I care what you think?” Shrugged the criminal. 

“You should care.” Battle informed him. “Because I think I’m gonna stab you with your own fucking horn.”

Baldy with the Horn scoffed. “I thought I was doing you a solid. But like hell am I gonna let some hero-fucker beat me!”

The criminal planted his feet, his muscles tensing. His eyes pinching shut with concentration, and Battle watched as that horn on his head grew to the size and length of the one that had impaled Battle. It fell off like a deer molting its antlers and the super caught it in his hands. Opening his eyes again, Baldy threw the horn at Battle as if it were a javelin. 

With more range of motion this time than what he was afforded handing in his wife’s arms, Battle was able to sidestep the attack, dodging it completely. The horn would have passed by his harmlessly. Expect this guy had pissed him off. He grabbed the projectile in mid-air. One in each hand now, Battle twisted his wrists, swinging them both, besting their weight and balance. 

“Man… you’re dumber than you look.” Battle charged at the criminal. 

He planted his feet again, growing another horn to have a weapon to defend himself. The process was too slow to be practical in fast pace of a real fight. If this guy ever attended Sky High, he would have been relegated to the Sidekick track. The horn molted into his waiting hands just as Battle closed the space between them, bringing one of one of the horns he held down on the man’s head like swinging a club. 

Baldy with a Horn staggered. Dazed. 

Pressing his advantage, Battle impaled the criminal through the stomach with the second horn. Baldy’s eyes went wide, dropping the horn he held and wrapping both hands around the one sticking out of his stomach. 

Mara floated down to land just a step behind Battle. “You- you killed him!”

She did not sound pleased. 

“No I didn’t.” Battle insisted. “It’s just a stomach wound. People don’t die from stomach wounds.”

“Only if they can get fast treatment!” Mara shouted back, hands balling into fists. It was easier to care about random strangers now that her heart had returned to her. The first thing she did, was get mad at her heart. 

“Maxville has some of the best hospitals in the world.” He reminded her. 

“Maxville has just been hit by a cataclysmic earthquake!” She shot back at him. “The hospitals that are even still up and running will be over-full. Ever if I managed to fly this guy to one –and I shouldn’t have to tell you that I’m a slow flyer- he’d still die of his wounds while waiting for treatment! You killed him, Barron, but you killed him slowly. He’ll suffer. And that’s cruel!”

Battle rolled his eyes. He loved Mara. Truly, he did. Her bold, brazenness, and utter lack of modesty. But some times she could be such a fucking hero. They loved each other, but they were not without their disagreements. “Fine.” 

With the other horn he still held, Battle stabbed the criminal through the eye. Tearing the ophthalmic artery and impaling the brain. Baldy with a Horn died instantly. Now he wouldn’t have to suffer, dying slowly. He was merciful. 

Battle looked up at his wife, expecting another lecture on how killing was wrong and how human life had value. That they didn’t have the right to execute criminals. They were not judges. He had no right to take a life. Etc. He braced himself for the familiar lecture. 

But all Mara did was look away. Expression unreadable behind her Flamebird mask. “We should keep moving.” She said. “I want to find my son.”

For half a second, Battle felt like he was suffering a sudden case of whiplash. As if he’d just been rear-ended while driving his Beamer. Since when did Mara Peace not care about someone being murdered right in front of her? 

“Are you okay?” He asked. 

“I’m worried about Warren.” She told him. 

“I just killed a guy in front of you.” Battle pointed to the body, now laying in a pool of blood. 

Mara looked away again. Raising into the air again, she scooped her husband back up. “You put him out of his misery. It was merciful.”

It was ‘good’, just not ‘moral’. The way she described the vast majority of his jobs over the years. 

The way she was holding him, Battle couldn’t turn his head far enough to look at her. 

Mara had always been extraordinarily gifted at justifying his contracts over seas. Assassinating third world dictators, despots, corrupt politicians, soviet leaders, members of radical militant sects. People that were objectively bad and reaped international harm. Superheroes believed killing was wrong, and Battle killed people –most often for personal profit- that was what made Barron Battle a supervillain. But the deaths –usually- left the country or area better off than it was before Battle committed his assassinations. So, it was easy for Mara to rationalize and justify those killings. 

But killing an already defeated man… right in front of her… An escaped criminal sure. But someone who’s crimes and motives they didn’t know. Who’s level of villainy was unclear. Who was still young enough to be rehabilitated, or earn redemption. Who had lost a fight, was in need of medical attention –help. To kill in cold blood right before her eyes. Even if the guy shot at her, Mara wouldn’t just brush that off as if she didn’t care. 

At least, a decade ago she wouldn’t have. 

“Did- did something happen in the last ten years?” He asked. Even over the roar of the wind, the concern in his voice was deep. 

“They took you away from me, Barron.” Mara reminded him, as if he needed the reminder. Her own voice low, but even. Smoldering almost. Burning with dark rage and channeled heat. “They took you away from our son. They ripped our family apart, and then went on with their own merry little lives as if it was no big deal. As if they didn’t even care. Then, the moment the Commander hears you’re out again, he just up and abandons our son and no one even knows where. They don’t care, Barron. They don’t care about us. They don't care about Warren. They don’t care about the harm they do.”

Battle was shook. He often commented over the years that Mara Peace was wasted as a hero. That the supervillain community was less because she chose the other side. He never, in a million years, would have believed she would –or could- switch teams and become a supervillain. 

But that tone in her voice… that slow burning and smoldering hatred. A quiet but powerful burn… It was the same kind of hatred Battle felt for his father before he killed the old bastard. It was the same kind of hatred that motivated Battle to become the supervillain that he was. It was the voice of one’s internal convictions being reduced to ash and replaced by malleable flux waiting to be forged into something new. It was the voice of someone’s core beliefs changing. 

“Ah- after we find Warren, I wanna have a family meeting.” Battle told her. 

…

Steve toed the body. The blood was still wet, but beginning to congeal and dry. The criminal had been dead less than an hour. 

Josie examined the dark spiral horns that suck out from his body. One in the stomach, the other in the eye. The same type of horns as the one growing out of his head. Killed by his own superpower. A terrifying way for any super to go. “This was Headhorn, one of Winter’s villains from before she moved up north.” ‘Winter’ was Isabella Makent, Warren’s ex-girlfriend. Unlike her pyrokinetic ex, she actually passed her internship the previous year and put several small-time supers behind bars before deciding to move out of town and put her powers to use elsewhere. “Warren didn’t do this.”

The fact that Warren was trying to be a hero and heroes didn’t kill aside, Headhorn had been killed with weapons. Warren used fire. The body was unburned. A weapon master killed him. Barron Battle was a weapons master. 

“You don’t actually know it was Barron.” Steve informed his wife. 

“It’s his MO.” Josie reminded her husband. “Find a weapon at the scene. Make his kill. Leave the weapon behind.” A pause. “And if Flamebird was here, she just let him do it. She let him kill.”

“You don’t know Mara was here either.” The Commander wasn’t usually the voice of reason in their relationship. He was usually the one to act on emotion, and Jetstream had to remind him to think rationally and use facts. The fact of this scene were, there were no burn marks anywhere. That meant no fire was used. No evidence of fire, not proof that a fire user was here. Nothing to put Mara Peace at the scene. And since they knew Mara and Barron were traveling together now, there was no reason to assume the killing had been committed by Barron Battle. 

“Why are you so quick to defend them all of a sudden?” Jetstream demanded. 

She and Mara Peace never really clicked. They were not friends. Mara always found Josie to be an over-achieving know-it-all with a stick up her ass that made her strict, and unadaptable. Josie found Mara to be a brazen and obnoxious woo-girl, who dressed like a harlot, made bad decisions, and –generally- made it harder for other female superheroes to be taken seriously. 

Then Barron Battle was arrested and it came to light that he was Mara’s lover, that they had a child together! In Josie’s mind, Mara Peace became just as much of an irredeemable villain as the man she bedded down with. Self-serving and without morals. 

“I’m not defending them.” Steve argued. “I’m just pointing out that you’re assuming facts not in evidence.”

“Don’t try to sound smart by using courtroom jargon.” Josie snapped. “Remember I was pre-law before you got me pregnant with Will.”

That was a whole different argument Steve did not want to get into at the moment. He sucked in a breath between his teeth. When one wasn’t sure what the right thing to say was, it was best to just not say anything at all. Steve rocked back on his heels, trying to put his feelings into words that his wife could understand and didn’t sound… hollow.

“Look, I…” The Commander paused. He had always been raised that men didn’t talk about their feelings. Feelings were for women, sissies, and fags (the Admiral’s words, not his). Real men got a beer and vented alone until the feeling went away. Or stamped it down deep where it could fester quietly. “I’m not saying we were wrong to arrest Barron. He was a villain and justice had to be done. But… but I… It traumatized Barron’s son. Warren. Not some nameless, faceless kid we’d never meet. Someone we know. Our own son’s best friend. We hurt Warren when we put Barron away and I- I just don’t want to hurt him again.”

Josie raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying you don’t want to re-apprehend Barron?”

“No.” Steve was quick to assure her. “No, Barron always swore his revenge. He’s a danger to us and to Will. I will do what needs to be done.” That was a promise, not just to his wife, but to himself too. “It’s just… things are more complicated than they used to be back when we were younger. There are other things to consider than just ‘him or me’, and I- I want to be sure.”

He wanted to make sure his actions would –overall- result in more good than harm. 

For what might have been the first time in his life, Steve Stronghold was considering the long-tern consequences for his actions. Both for himself and the people around him. Almost in his fifties now, but he was evolving. An old dog learning new tricks. 

Josie’s expression softened. It wasn’t so much for Barron and Mara’s sake that he kept inserting doubt. It was for his own. His own conscience and his own feelings. That was something she could sympathize with. She loved her husband and wanted him to be happy and healthy. Not guilt-ridden and anxious. 

“We’ll radio in that they can strike Headhorn off the list of fugitives.” She told him. And they wouldn’t share any of their guesses as to who murdered him. “Then we’ll keep looking for Barron.”


	12. An Unlikely Truce

“Whoah!” Will gasped as he was pulled out of the air by invisible hands. 

The supervillain they were fighting now was clearly at a level far above Slingshot. The three of them had been struggling with this guy for a while now. 

He was Serge Brava, a very famous supervillain by the name Handless. He wasn’t actually handless. He earned the name by committing thefts, tampering with evidence, committing murders, and fighting superheroes, all without using either of his hands. And, in fact, he was not using his hands right now. They were resting casually in the pockets of his Maximum Security jumpsuit. 

At least, the hands they could see. 

Handless’ superpower was something that mimicked telekinesis, the ability to move objects with one’s mind without the need to touch them. But that was only how it appeared to the naked eye. Handless actually had several hands besides the two on the ends of his arms. Half a dozen, in fact. Six invisible hands coming out of the base of his neck where it met his back. Six hands on the ends of six invisible tentacles. Each stronger than the physical strength of his real arms. 

Will slammed into the ground.

“Ugh… How do we fight something we can’t see?” He groaned as Layla ran to his side, while Warren laid down cover fire. Shooting fireballs at their enemy to keep him distracted so that he couldn’t grab one of them again. 

Each fireball Warren threw would suddenly veer sideways, swatted away by invisible hands. None of them could see the enemy’s power. 

“Your parents eventually brought him down.” Layla reminded Will. “There must be a way to get around those invisible arms.”

“If you have any insights, I’d really love to know!” Warren called over his shoulder. 

He took his eyes off Handless for less than a second. Just a moment, to glance over his shoulder and shout something back at his friends. But one split second was all the supervillain needed. It opened enough of a gap in the pyrokinetic’s attacks for the supervillain to get in a move of his own. 

Warren might have gasped, except there was an invisible hand now closed around his throat. Squeezing his windpipe shut. The pyrokinetic’s already flaming hands went to claw at the unseen entity constricting his windpipe. It was like trying to claw at spider webs. He could feel that something was there, but his fingers passed right through it. More of a ghost than a hand. He gasped for air, body desperate to breath, but nothing got through the tight grip. Eyes pinching shut, Warren allowed his fire to spread across his chest and over his shoulders. Up his neck to burn the hand off. But Handless felt no pain from the flames. His invisible hands as immune to incendiary damage as they were to physical clawing. It was like trying to burn smoke. 

“Warren!” Layla gasped, letting slip his real name in her panic. Hands going over her mouth, eyes wide with horror. She did not want to watch one of her dearest friends die!

Pushing himself out of the crater created by his own body, Will zoomed across the cracked street at the supervillain. He was smacked out of the air by another invisible hand, held down by them. Two on his back, a third pressing his face into the pavement. Nose and forehead scrapping on the asphalt. 

Handless cackled. “I can’t wait to see the look on the Commander’s face when he sees I killed his brat and…” a pause, looking at the other man he held. Warren wasn’t wearing any colors recognizable as belonging to an established super. Just black with a little bit of red. No emblems, logos, or symbols. “…and his brat’s flaming boyfriend!”

The flames wreathing up Warren’s neck and over his shoulders began to recede. Fade from his body. The hands clawing at his throat slowing, arms drooping. Going slack. Hanging limp at his sides, fire going out completely as the pyrokinetic passed out. 

Tears in her eyes Layla placed her hands on the ground to summon a tangle of vines. As many vines as she needed. As many vines as she could. She would wrap the whole bad guy in vines. She would wrap the whole damn street in vines if she needed to! 

But just as the first sprouts poked through the asphalt, something –or, rather, someone- else struck Handless. 

Falling out of the sky, not the controlled decent of a flyer, but the freefall of someone being dropped from above. Dressed in black. Leather, from the looks of it. With longish curly hair and wire framed glasses over his eyes. He fell right on top of Handless, grabbing him and pulling him to the ground in a tangle of limbs. 

But it was enough for Handless to break his concentration. 

Warren’s limp body dropped to the ground, unmoving. But he was breathing. The moment the invisible hand was no longer squeezing his throat his body automatically began gulping in breaths of air. 

Will rolled over and crawled to his friend. One hand pulling off Warren’s glove, squeezing his wrist to check for a pulse. He was alive. Unconscious, but alive. 

Handless recovered enough from the initial surprise attack to pull his attacker off him. Having to use four of his invisible tentacle hands to do so. Grabbing the attacker by both arms and pushing-pulling him away. 

With his arms restricted, the attacker in black swung his legs up, delivering a two-footed kick to Handless chest instead. The supervillain staggered backwards but did not let go of his attacker. 

Layla watched all of this, feeling like she should recognize the man who’d –literally- just dropped in and saved them. Both Will and Warren would probably be dead or dying right now if it weren’t for him. She didn’t recognize the costume, but the face held a vague familiarity and she felt bad not knowing who their savior was. 

Then Flamebird landed next to Warren’s prone body and Layla didn’t have to wonder who the attacker in black was. A man, old enough to be one of their parents, dressed all in black like a villain, delivering vicious attacks, and who looked vaguely familiar. That had to be Barron Battle. He looked familiar because he looked like Warren, or –more accurately- Warren looked like him. 

While Battle grappled with Handless in a sloppy villain vs. villain showdown, Flamebird checked her son’s pulse and breathing. When she was assured that he was, indeed, still alive, she looked up at Layla –seemingly ignoring Will who’s face was all scratched up and bloody. 

“How long was he without air?” Mara demanded. 

“I- uh- I donno.” Layla confessed. She hadn’t exactly been timing how long Handless had Warren in that choke-hold. 

“Help me get him out of the way!” The older woman commanded instead. 

Together, Layla and Mara dragged Warren off the open street and onto the sidewalk, under the cover of a collapsed segment of billboard. Then Layla went back for Will. Mara did not offer her assistance with the Stronghold boy. She knelt by her son, removing his mask. Not that Will needed the extra help or anything. He was conscious and could walk fine. But… a little concern would have been nice. 

With his mask off, they could see Warren’s eyelashes fluttering and he groaned, close to coming to. He could not have been unconscious for more than a minute, maybe two. Things happened fast in super fights. 

There was an uncomfortable sounding smack as Handless slammed Battle into the ground, and a wet pish as an exposed segment of rebar stabbed up into Battle’s leg. 

“Gah!” He snarled in mingled pain and hatred. “I hate rebar!”

It was a broken segment of rebar that Steve and Josie used to kill him during his famous arrest. 

“Should- should we help Mr. Battle?” Layla asked, unsure. 

Were heroes even allowed to help a supervillain in a villain-villain fight? This was something they didn’t cover in school. No one ever acknowledged that a need might arise for heroes and villains to work together. In school, they made it sound like the lines were clearly defined and impossible to cross. Heroes and villains didn’t help each other out on missions. They weren’t friends. They weren’t lovers. (Except there was one very well-known and compelling case to the contrary.) 

“Stay out of his way.” Mara commanded. 

Sucking in a breath, Warren coughed. Sitting up and opening his eyes. Both hands going to his throat. He pulled at the snaps of the high collar of his costume, pulling the material away from his neck. Dark, hand-shaped bruises were already forming on the soft skin. Made all the more apparent by the movement of his taking in deep gulping breaths. 

“Look at me!” Mara grabbed her son’s face and forced him to look at her. Studying his eyes, making sure his pupils weren’t dilated, and he wasn’t having trouble focusing. Taking one hand away from the side of his face, she held it up. “Follow my finger.”

“Mom?” Warren blinked at her. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m making sure you don’t have brain damage.” Mara snapped at her son. “Now follow my finger.” She moved it from side to side for Warren to track with his eyes. “Good. Do you know what day it is?” He quoted the correct date. “And our current address. Good. Spell your middle name.”

At that one, Warren paused. He glanced to the side at Will and Layla. “Do- do I have to?”

In an effort to get out of Handless’ hold, Battle intentionally dislocated one of his shoulders. Popping it out of place and loosening the invisible hand’s hold on him. One arm free now, Battle grabbed a chunk of broken… something and struck Handless in the head with it. Not hard enough to kill him, not even hard enough to knock him out. But it was enough to break his concentration again and cause the supervillain to let Battle go. 

Handless staggered backwards. 

Battle pulled the rebar out of his leg and pushed himself back to his feet. One arm held at an odd angle, the other hand hold the rebar. 

“Is that- …Dad?” Warren asked, looking over his mother’s shoulder. 

“Hey, you wanted to see your dad.” Will wiped blood away from his nose and forehead, smiling at his friend. There was blood on his teeth too. 

“Hey!” Battle shouted at them from across the street. “If the girl in green is the same one from the letters, tell her to fill the air with pollen!”

“What letters?” Layla glanced from between where Battle was fighting Handless, to Warren and Mara. 

“Barren’s an expert tactician.” Mara informed her protégé, ignoring her question. Did she really think his family wouldn’t send him letters? “Do what he says. Pollen. Lots of it. Now!”

She hesitated half a moment longer, still unsure how pollen would help in this situation. But her mentor said that Barron Battle was an excellent tactician, he must have a reason for filling the air with pollen. Layla looked over the broken street. 

It wasn’t the right kind of landscape for trees. They would block the roads and buildings. So no oak, ash, alder, or hazel, the biggest pollen producers. That left grasses and weeds. 

Pursing her lips in concentration, Layla flattened her palms to the ground. Like summoning her vines. Creating new plants where there were not to begin with. Kentucky blue grass, Timothy grass, Johnson, redtop orchard, and perennial rye. Ragweed, sagebrush, redroot pigweed, and goosefoot. She grew them tall. Surrounding the section of the street they were fighting on in a wide circle. 

The pollen was so thick in the air it was almost like a fog. A thick veil of dust that irritated even those that did not have seasonal allergies. 

Will’s eyes itched. “Ugh. Why pollen?”

Warren sneezed, fire shooting out of his nose instead of mucus. 

Mara was already reaching into her utility belt for an antihistamine. She handed one to her son before swallowing one herself. Dry. No water to wash it down. She did not offer one to the Stronghold boy. 

The only person that seemed unbothered by all the pollen in the air was Layla. She stared at Barron Battle and Handless. “His hands!” She exclaimed. “You can see them now!”

Everyone turned their attention to the fight between Battle and Handless. Sure enough, with all the pollen in the air, they could see the long, thin, tentacle-like arms coming out the back of Handless’s neck. Six of them. Able to stretch as long as he was tall. Able to change their mass and density to be as hard and physically present as a rock, or as whispy and insubstantial as a ghost. 

Now that they could see them, Battle could dodge and counter them. 

Mara was right. It was a good tactic. 

The next time Handless lunged for Battle, going for a smack or a grab, the other villain dodged. Jumping out of the way. Bending and twisting his body to weave his way between them. Threading himself between the ghost-like tentacles to get closer to Handless’ much more vulnerable body. 

Realizing this, Handless changed his tactics. Using his superhuman hands more like spider legs to jump away. Put more distance between himself and Battle. 

Handless turned his attention back to the younger heroes. This time focusing on the one he ignored earlier. On the one in green. The one with the plant powers. With some space between him and Battle, he stalked across the street. Ghost-like hands reaching in front of him to grab at the girl. 

Pushing himself back to his feet, Warren pushed Layla out of the way, lighting both his arms on fire. Pollen in the air around them catching and burning up it short little poofs of flame that burnt out within seconds of being ignited. 

But just before Handless could close those demon hands around either the pyrokinetic or the chlorokinetic he was protecting, the villain stopped. A full stop. With a gasp and a groan. The ghost-like hands coming out of the back of his neck vanishing. At first going limp like real limbs, then melting like flotsam in the ether. Everyone stared at Handless. His mouth hung open, as if in shock. Blood gurgled up out of his mouth and spilled over his bottom lip. Then he fell forward. Collapsed on the ground. Prone and unmoving. 

Barron Battle stood behind him, holding the bloody rebar. 

Handless on the ground, they could clearly see the stab wound where Battle stabbed him in the back. He impaled the body again, this time through the back of the neck right where his superpower came out, just to make sure the supervillain was dead. Blood splattering as high as Warren’s chest. 

“Are you okay?” Battle demanded, eyes full of concern and focusing on his son only. 

“You- you killed him!” Was all Warren could say. His ungloved hand touched the blood spatter on his chest, his fingers coming away wet and red. He stared down at the body at his feet. The blood was still leaking out of the body, and he was now standing in a puddle of it. Human bodies held so much blood! 

Stepping over the body as if it was nothing, as if it didn’t matter, Battle forced his son to look at him. “People die all the time, Little Soldier.” He said. “I don’t care about them. I’m asking about you. Are you okay?”

“You killed him!” Repeated the younger man. His own eyes, a deep rich brown identical to his father’s, were wide with horror. He took a step back, pulling out of his father’s hold. Staring at the other man as if his father had personally betrayed him. 

“Warren-“ Battle began, unsure how to respond to this reaction from his son. Warren had never looked at him like that before. Like he was… like he was afraid of his father. 

But he was cut off by his wife placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Barron… Warren’s never seen a dead body before. He’s never seen anyone die before. Give him a moment to process. He’s more like his friends than he is like you.”

Battle glanced at the other two youngsters with them. The one with plant powers he assumed had to be the famous Layla, and a boy wearing Jetstream and the Commander’s colors with a stylized rampart on his chest that couldn’t be anyone but the Stronghold boy. They both had equal expressions of shock and horror on their faces. Horror that echoed Warren’s own, but without the overt betrayal. Battle took a step back to give the kids a moment to process. 

Could he call them kids? They were all over eighteen, legally that made them adults. But Warren was his child, that made everyone in Warren’s age bracket a child by association. So, yes, they were kids. Grown-up kids. 

He waited for Warren to come to. He used to take the boy hunting with him when he was younger. Over the summer vacations when Warren was free from school. They would all go camping in the North Hills together, fun family camping trips, and Battle would hunt like he used to when he lived in the mountains. It was Warren’s job to carry his extra bolts and reload the crossbow. He’d seen Battle kill things before. Never a person, but things. He should not be as horrified by the sight of death as he was. 

Surprising everyone, Layla was the first one to recover. 

She wiped her eyes, apparently they were wet from stress tears, and lowered her hood. Bright mahogany-red hair braided in the pigtails fell over her shoulders and she tugged on one of them nervously. 

“I- um…” She stammered. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” She confessed, speaking too fast. Voice unnecessarily loud from nerves. “We just witnessed a murder! But it was because you were protecting someone! And- uh- and we just met Warren’s dad! I- uh- I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Battle. I mean- not really, pleased. But- Hello.” 

There was a beat of silence in which everyone just stared at Layla. 

She tugged on her pigtail again. She might have recovered from the shock of witnessing a death, but she was still anxious. Her mind still reeling. Like she said, she had no idea what she was supposed to do. What was the appropriate reaction to that? They never received any kind of conditioning in how to deal with fresh deaths in school. 

Then Battle turned back to Warren with a smile. “Oh, I like her.”

That was what finally snapped Warren out of his shock. He grabbed Layla by the wrist and pulled her behind him. Very firmly placing himself between the chlorokinetic and his supervillain father. He did not light his arms back on fire, but he was in the stance he most often preferred for powering up. 

Now it was Battle’s turn to look betrayed. Without even saying a word, his son had just accused him of being an enemy. “Warren, are you afraid of me?”

Then Young Stronghold finally recovered from his shock. 

“He’s not afraid, Mr. Battle.” Will blurted out. “He wanted to see you. He made me fly him to the Spear because that’s where you used to live. He was looking for you.”

Battle flashed the boy a dirty look. He did not appreciate Steve’s little spawn inserting himself into a conversation that was very clearly between him and Warren. Still, it was reassuring to hear that –even after all these years- his son still cared about him, wanted to see him. 

“I’m here, Little Soldier.” He said. “You can see me.” Battle lifted one hand as if to reached out and touch his son, but the boy recoiled at the motion and Battle lowered his arm impotently. 

Mara cleared her throat. “Warren, it looks like your father’s shoulder is dislocated. You know how to pop that back into place, right? That was covered in your super first aid classes in school.” 

“I can fix a dislocated shoulder!” Will volunteered in his best ‘I think I’m helping’ voice. 

Battle only turned a murderous glare at the boy. A silent warning that if Steve Stronghold’s son laid a hand on him, then the boy wouldn’t have hands for much longer. 

Will visibly backed up, throwing his arms up in surrender. “Or, I can just watch.”

“Warren, why don’t you fix your dad’s arm for him?” Mara prompted in a gentle, leading voice. The kind of voice a parent used when trying to teach children conflict resolution, or coping skills. 

Warren glanced at his mother, unsure. As if asking what he should do. Or for permission. He was trying to be a hero. Was it okay for heroes to help villains? Mara just nodded. Urging the boy to help his father. He glanced at the older man, then quickly flicked his eyes down to the body prone on the ground behind him. Face down in a pool of blood. The body of a person his father killed. 

“Look up here, Little Soldier, look at me.” Battle said in the same calm, leading voice that Mara used. A parent guiding their child through something new and upsetting. “It’s just me.”

Raising his eyes, Warren looked at his father. It was his dad. He knew his father was a supervillain. He knew his father killed people. But he’d never seen it. All Warren ever saw was the man who made his bag lunches before driving him to school. Who tucked him in at night after his mother read him a bedtime story. Who fell asleep on the couch with the cat on his lap. That was the Dad that Warren knew. 

With a weak nod, Warren placed the heel of his hand against his father’s shoulder, and grabbed his wrist with the other hand. There was a firm, wrenching tug, and an uncomfortable popping sound. Then Barron Battle’s arm was back in its socket and healing as good as new. He rotated his shoulder and lifted his arm. 

“That’s some pretty good work.” He commented, beaming with approval. 

Warren flashed the ghost of a smile, just the slightest upturning of the corners of his mouth. It faded quickly when his eyes fell back to the dead body behind his father. He stepped back away. 

But before anyone could say anything more, two figures drifted down from the air. A cautious controlled decent. Everyone looked up to see Jetstream lower the Commander out of her hold before landing next to him. 

“Shit!” The first thing Battle did was pull the broken piece of rebar out of Handless’ body and fling it as far away as he could. “Keep stabbing things away from them!”

Seven times in the chest. Between the two of them they had stabbed Barron Battle seven times in the chest. He’d been stabbed before, and he’d been killed before. Battle liked to consider himself an expert on death and stabbings. And in his expert opinion seven times in the chest was excessive and he was not looking forward to the possibility of going through it again. 

“Barron.” Steve’s eyes focused on his nemesis. 

“Steve.” Battle’s voice echoed the same tone. 

The Commander looked to the others gathered. Flamebird, they knew Mara Peace was traveling with Barron. Seeing her was no surprise. And they’d come directly to find their son. Warren was working with both Will and Layla. Everyone Steve expected to find was present and accounted for. That was actually a relief. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. The kids were still together and they were fine. 

He was about to relax until he heard Josie exclaim, “Will! What happened to you!?”

She rushed forward, pulling her son closer to her and farther away from Battle. There were rough abrasions on his nose and forehead from when Handless graded his face against the pavement like a block of cheese. But it was all surface damage. Cosmetic. It looked worse than it actually was. There was no reason to get excited. 

“Did Barron do this to you?” Jetstream demanded. 

“No, Mom, I’m fine. I’m fine.” Will tried to assure his mother. “It’s not that bad, and Mr. Battle didn’t hurt me. This was done by Handless.” Will pointed to the dead body, then quickly regretted it. “Mr. Battle actually saved us from Handless.”

Making a quick glance down at the pool of blood, Jetstream glared at Battle. “By killing. He saved you by killing.”

“Fucker was going after my son.” Battle informed her, absolutely no remorse in his voice. Actually, at the time the deathblow was dealt, Handless was going after Layla. Warren placed himself between her and the villain. But the distinction was immaterial. “You telling me you wouldn’t do the same thing if it was your son?”

“I don’t kill!” Josie insisted. 

“Re~eally…?” Battle fiddled with one of the buckles on the side of his vest. He reached a hand under the leather and poked a couple fingers through the stab holes. “You don’t kill?” 

“That-“ She cut herself off, face going red. “I don’t have to justify myself to you!”

The kids looked from between Battle wiggling his fingers through holes in his costume, to Jetstream flustered, red in the face, and insulted. The Commander was oddly quiet, face stony. 

“What’s he talking about?” Will asked his parents. 

“What’s going on?” Layla’s question was a bit broader, but the sentiment was the same. 

“Dad?” Warren’s voice was low and soft. Scared almost. Like a child poking his head around his parents’ door because he had a nightmare but was unsure if it was okay to come in and sleep with them. 

That was the first thing Warren said since Battle killed Handless. 

Battle took his hand out of his shirt and buckled the side shut again. Since Steve and Josie didn’t seem like they were going to answer any time soon, he figured he would oblige. “Your ‘noble heroes’ here, who don’t believe in killing their enemies, killed me.” When both Will and Layla looked skeptical he nodded. “Oh, yeah. The fearless Commander impaled me on a piece of rebar just like the one I used on Handless, and when I came back after that, sweet and kind Jetstream stabbed me six more times!”

Will and Layla exchanged a look. There were lots of things wrong with that story. The idea that Steve and Josie Stronghold would kill a person aside, there was one big, glaring, impossible to explain flaw. 

“Um, Mr. Battle, you’re… still alive.” Will felt so strange having to explain to a person that was standing in front of him, walking, and talking, and being alive that they were, in fact, not dead. 

“And you’re as dumb as your father.” Battle informed the boy. 

“Hey!” The Commander stepped forward, placing himself between Will and his nemesis. 

“Steve!” Battle smiled as if they were old friends. “Nice of you to join the conversation. I heard you’re my son’s mentor now. Not sure what brain-trust made that decision, but I can submit that complaint later. What I’d really like to know is where do you get off-! just up and abandoning my son in who-knows-where right after a disaster like this!?” He waved his arms around to indicate the earthquake destruction. “You wouldn’t have done that if it was your kid!”

“Um, actually…” Will pipped up again. He wanted to shrink away from the venomous look Battle gave him for daring to speak again, but didn’t. Will might be a lot gentler than his father had been at his age, but that didn’t make him timid. “Warren and I were together when my dad left us. So… if he ‘abandoned’ Warren, then he did abandon me too.” 

Battle only blinked. He looked to his own son for confirmation. 

“Where did you even get the idea that I was ‘abandoned’ anyway?” Warren asked. 

Battle glanced at his wife. 

Mara frowned. 

Warren looked at his mother, a concerned, measuring look. Almost like confirming suspicions he’d had for a long time. “Mom?”

Before she could answer, Layla raised her hand as if they were still in school. “In Flamebird’s defense, I was there when the Mayor’s aid told us the Commander and Jetstream flew off to Max Pen. There was no mention of Warren being with them. It was kinda ambiguous, but since we knew that Warren was supposed to be with the Commander, then suddenly being told that he wasn’t with the Commander, I can understand why Flamebird might have jumped to that conclusion.”

“So, everything was just a big misunderstanding.” Will smiled, almost beaming, as if this solved everything, things were settled, there was no more bad blood, and they could all be friends now. Just like he and Warren were friends now. Work together to re-apprehend the rest of the convicts, and save the city. 

But the adults just continued to glare at each other with barely contained hostility. Clearly, everything was not solved, things were not settled, there was still bad blood, they could not be friends now. 

Turing to Warren, Battle jerked a thumb at Will. “Is Baby-Steve always this annoying?”

“Eh.” Warren made a ‘so-so’ gesture with his ungloved hand. 

“We’re gonna have a chat about your taste in friends later.” Battle informed his son, they would add it to the agenda of their family meeting. For the moment, the turned his attention back to the Commander and Jetstream. “As much as I’m just itching to have a gratuitously violent rematch with lots of collateral damage and bad puns… at the moment, I think we should focus on finding whoever caused the earthquake in the first place and taking them down instead.”

This statement was followed by another awkward silence. 

“Uh… Barron,” Steve began, using a gentle voice meant for talking down the hysterical or the insane, “people don’t make earthquakes. They’re natural disasters.”

Battle massaged his temples, as if staving off a stress headache. “Gawd! I forgot how dumb you are!” Suppressing a groan, he sucked in a breath. Then began again, very, very calmly. The kind of calm voice one used when they were actually very, very frustrated and trying very, very hard not to fly into a rage. “Steve.” The name was more growled than spoken. “I know you’re not smart, but you are experienced. Please think. You’ve lived in Maxville all your life, you know what normal Maxville earthquakes feel like. This was not a normal quake. It lasted too long, the shaking was too steady and too consistent, it rose in intensity before suddenly stopping, not rose and fell in waves. Finally, it’s almost eighteen hours since the quake and no aftershocks.” 

There were always aftershocks after an earthquake. After a quake as large as the one last night, the aftershocks should have felt like quakes of their own. But there had been none. Things had been quiet since the first shake. 

“This was Terra.” Battle announced. “We need to find her.”

There was another beat of silence. 

Then, “Terra is dead!” Josie insisted. 

Battle just raised an eyebrow at her. “Like Steve thought Sue was dead?” When none of the Strongholds offered any comment to that statement, he continued. “See, this is the problem with your ‘no kill’ gag order. You just assume your enemies are dead when they disappear after a decisive battle. Steve made the mistake with Sue, and you made the mistake with Terra. But neither of you actually dealt a killing blow. Did either of you ever find a body? No body, no death. No death, then they’re gonna come back eventually.” 

Both adult Strongholds just gaped at him. 

Sometimes, dealing with heroes could be so frustrating. It was so much easier to just jump right into the gratuitously violent fights with excessive collateral damage and bad puns. There was no thought required for those. You didn’t need to make sure the braindead heroes understood things. You could just wail on each other until one or both passed out. 

Then Layla raised her hand again. She was so needlessly polite. The type of person that seemed like she could get along with anyone. No wonder Warren liked her. “Sorry,” she said, “but who’s Terra?”

“Terra was one of Barron’s friends from school.” The Commander supplied. “She was part of his little gang. Him, Sue Tenny, Jim Grayson, and Terra Firma.”

That did not actually tell the kids what they needed to know. 

“She’s a super with earth-based powers that gave her the ability to create and control earthquakes.” Battle supplied the much more relevant information. “But, since Sky High is a floating fortress miles above the ground, that’s not a power that can be demonstrated in the high school gymnasium. So, she was relegated to the sidekick track.”

Something that appeared to be a common theme with supervillains from the seventies and eighties. 

“Were you… in the sidekick track too, Mr. Battle?” Layla asked. He seemed so formidable. 

The Commander snorted. “This psycho? Ha! First day of freshman year, when he’s called up to demonstrate his power, ya know what he did? He took the coach’s pencil and stabbed it through his freaking hand! Wiggled it around a bit too, just to make sure the hole was bigger. Then he holds his hand up so that everyone can see it heal. All the while glaring through the hole as if he already hates all of us. There’s blood dripping on the platform and there’s blood all over the pencil, and the coach is just staring at him, and it’s all so gross, and Barron just steps off the platform calmly, as if he didn’t just traumatize the whole damn class!” A pause, remembering that illustrating that Barron Battle was always a little off balance was not the point of this story. Steve cleared his throat. “Ahm. So, they put him in hero track.”

“I just hung out with the sidekicks because I actually enjoy intelligent and stimulating conversation.” Battle informed the group.

“Really?” Josie asked, skeptical. “How intelligent and stimulating was Jim Grayson?”

Jim Grayson grew up to become the henchman known as Stitches. Royal Pain’s jester-themed minion that never cracked a decent joke in his life. 

“I think we’re getting off base here.” Mara stood next to her husband. She never hung out with his friends from school. Sue Tenny disappeared before their senior year was even over. Barron’s father disappeared and he started living under the –unofficial- custodianship of the leader of an underground neutral-super organization. Stitches had problems with his foster parents. Terra also had her own issues to work through. After graduation they all went their separate ways. “It doesn’t matter who hung out with whom in high school. Terra’s friendship with Barron ended over twenty years ago the first   
time she tried to destroy the city.”

“Why do you care what happens to Maxville, Barron?” Steve asked, not for the first time. “You’re a supervillain.”

“Because I fucking live here, moron!” Battle shouted, not for the first time. “My family lives here! This is my base of operations! The Home Ground. You protect your Home Ground, you moronic, shit-for-brains, self-righteous, dumbass!”

“Dad, calm down.” Warren pleaded with his father. 

Battle turned the anger meant for Steve at his son. “Am I wrong!?”

The younger man recoiled at the harsh tone. His father rarely raised his voice to Warren, he’d never actually been yelled at by him before. It was intimidating. Scary almost. And didn’t match up with Warren’s memories of the kind, loving, and nurturing man who raised him. But it did match up with the picture of a supervillain and murderer that the rest of the world painted of him. Warren took a visible step back from his father. 

Battle paused. Taking his own mental step back. He’d just turned his anger on his child. For something that had absolutely nothing to do with the boy. Venting rage at him for no other reason than he was the one who had his attention. It was the kind of thing Battle’s father would do. It was exactly the kind of thing Battle promised himself he would never do. When he killed his father, when he married Mara, when Warren was born… at every significant turning point in his life, he renewed the promise to never become the type of monster that made his own family fear him. 

“Warren, I-“ He had no idea what he was supposed to say. His own father always apologized after his episodes, but that never changed the behavior. Battle learned at a very young age that apologies meant nothing. 

Will startled everyone when he blurted out a sudden epiphany. A supervillain with the power to create and control earthquakes. Trued to do the same thing twenty years ago. Everyone assumed she was dead… “Ohmygawd!” He shouted, startling everyone. “Terra is Faultline! You think Faultline is alive!”

Battle blinked at the youngest Stronghold. “Okay, maybe you’re not quite as dumb as your father.”

“Can you please ease up on the insults?” he Commander pleaded with his nemesis. They might not be trading punches, but the way Barron was dishing out barbs, it was like they were back in high school. 

“Can you please quit it with the irrelevancies and focus on what’s important?” Battle shot back. Yup. They were definitely arguing like they were back in high school. 

“He’s just trying to distract us.” Jetstream cut in. “He’s trying to send us on a wild goose chase so we don’t bring him in and send him back to where he belongs.”

Battle massaged his temples again. “Ya know, being student council president, I’d have thought you’d be better than Steve.” He muttered. “Look, this whole break out thing. All the escapees. Random prisoners. No pattern or selection apparent. But every super, cop, and state trooper in the area is out looking for them. It’s a red herring.”

The stamen was just met with blank stares. 

“The… fish?” Asked the Commander. 

“Right. I’m dealing with halfwits, here.” Battled sighed, then snapped his fingers. “Little Soldier, define for your friends what a red herring is.”

Warren blinked, started to be put on the spot. “Huh? Oh. Uh. When training hunting dogs, the trainer would drag a red herring across the quarry’s trail to confuse the scent. It was a distraction.”

Battle nodded, glad not all of their hunting lessons together had been forgotten. Just buried under a decade of separation. “And that’s what all this is. A distraction. While you’re all wasting your energy and exhausting yourselves looking for enemies you’ve already beaten, it leave Terra free to do whatever the hell it is she resurfaced to do.”

Now it was Steve’s turn to purse his lips in disapproval. He hated it when Barron’s ranting made sense. 

Josie looked at her husband, reading his expression. “Steve…” she muttered, voice a quiet warning, “you’re not actually thinking what I think you’re thinking…?”

But the Commander had eyes for Barron Battle and Barron Battle only in that moment. Staring at the other man’s face. Examining his expression for any inconsistencies or tells. Any indications that the man was anything but sincere. Battle had assisted in defending the city before. He wasn’t a mindless killer, or a maniac. He had reasons for everything he did. Warren still maintained that he was a good father that loved him and his mother. Barron insisted that he cared about his family and the city was where his family lived… He could trust Battle to protect the city…

“We team up on this,” Steve began, not breaking eye-contact with Battle. “You promise not to stab me in the back.”

Closing the space between them, getting right up into the Commander’s personal space. They were almost nose-to-nose. “I promise you, Steve, that when I stab you, we will be standing face to face. You will be conscious and have the presence of mind to know what’s happening to you. We will be making eye-contact like we are now. It will not be an accident. And it will be at a moment that is most advantageous to me. That is not this moment.”

Steve was visibly uncomfortable. But he did not move away from his nemesis. “That’s- that’s not what I meant when I-“

“I know what you meant.” Battle snarled, low and quiet. The sound coming for the back of his throat. An uncomfortable sound as terrifying as an unknown rumble in the dark. “Until I’m satisfied that my family is safe, I can play nice.” 

It was the best truce the Commander could hope for and he breathed an audible sigh of relief. His breath hot against Battle’s skin, they were still standing so close. 

“Are you two gonna kiss or something?” Mara asked, crossing her arms over her chest. 

The tension broken, Steve back up from Barron as if the other man had pushed him. Now he was almost pointedly avoiding eye-contact. Steve offered his hand. 

The Commander and Barron Battle shook on the agreement. Sealing their truce.


	13. Deep Breath Before the Plunge

Josie insisted on getting Will’s cuts and scrapes cleaned up. The closest place for medical treatment to them was the MASH camp outside of Divide, so that was where they went. 

While a volunteer scrubbed at Will’s face none-too-gently with antiseptic, working out the bits of dirt and gravel that were still stuck inside the wound, Battle pulled Warren aside. 

“Come with me.” He muttered to his son. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Without even waiting for a response from the boy, Battle pulled Warren inside the dark and cavernous club. They had cleared more of the floor since earlier in the day when Battle was last here. Cleared the floor and added lanterns for light, both battery and propane powered. As a result, the night club was actually better lit than when it was open for buisness. 

Avraham Wechsler was still seated at the bar. But he wasn’t drinking this time. Two lamps flanking him, both turned up to their brightest setting. The financial books in front of him and a folder of insurance papers. Ave was trying to figure out what comes next after the disaster. Cosimo stood next to him, bending down to whisper into the old man’s ear every now and again, dutifully keeping him updated on happenings in the rest of the city as the reports came in from the rest of his siblings. 

Cosimo noticed Battle and Warren first. He placed a silent hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Mr. Battle is back.” He muttered. “And it looks like he brought another villain with him.”

“I’m not a villain!” Warren snapped. 

The old man turned around on his bar stool. Looking Warren up and down. Eyes skipping over the all black costume and instead focusing on the mask that was the exact same shape and design as Flamebird’s mask –even if the color was different- and the two streaks of redder-than-red in his hair. The same shade of red as Battle’s bombshell of a wife, Mara Peace. It didn’t take much effort to deduce exactly who the young super Battle had with him really was. 

“But you’re dressed like one.” Ave smiled at the boy. 

Although, ‘boy’ was an unfair term. He stood tall, was working to be taken seriously as a super with his own identity, independent from either of his parents. He was a young man. But Avraham Wechsler was at an age where everyone seemed like a ‘boy’ to him. Battle still seemed like a ‘boy’ to him. 

“This is my son.” Battle announced, clapping a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

The old man already gathered as much. 

“Warren, this is the Broker.” He told the younger man. “He’s the one who would find jobs for me back when you were little.”

It was impossible to read the boy’s expression behind his mask. “You’re another supervillain.”

“Neutral.” Corrected the Broker. But then, sometimes the distinction was lost on certain members of the super community. After all, he worked with villains. In the eyes of some, that made him guilty by association. “I’m not a hero or a villain. But I do work with both sides.”

“I- -didn’t know that was an option.” Warren admitted. In school, they always made it seem like there were only two options. Hero or villain. Good or evil. Day or night. One or the other. Never the two should meet. Nothing in between. Maybe if someone –just one person- in the super community (aside from his mother) had told him that he didn’t have to be a hero in order to not be a villain, Warren wouldn’t have lived with anxiety for all of his teenage years. 

“You have more options than you realize.” The hand on Warren’s shoulder squeezed gently, an encouraging gesture. To the Broker he asked, “You wanna read him, Ave?”

Startled, Warren glanced between his father and the old man, suddenly nervous. He didn’t know what that meant. 

The Broker smiled, amused. Battle’s son looked so irrationally scared. “Only if he wants to be read.”

“Of course he wants to be read!” Battle insisted. 

He gave the boy a light push closer to the old man. But Warren refused to move his feet to accommodate the forward motion and he stumbled slightly. 

Now it was Cosimo’s turn to smile in amusment. “It’s not bad or anything.” He told the younger man. “The Broker just takes a look at you, gets a read on your powers and your personality. He figures out what you’re good at and how best to apply your talents.” A pause. “You’ve never heard of the Broker? He matches supers with jobs and jobs with supers.”

“I don’t need a job.” Warren informed the room. “I have a job.”

He still worked part time at the Paper Lantern. That was all the job he could do at the moment, since the rest of his time was divided between culinary school and hero internship. He didn’t have time to take on any other jobs, and he sure as heck didn’t wanna take any jobs that might endanger his career as a hero. If his father took jobs from the Broker, then that meant that the Broker offer villain jobs, not hero missions. 

Cosimo smiled again, this time accompanied by a snort. He found Warren’s stubborn insistence funny for some reason. Either that, or one of his siblings made some snarky comment that only he could hear. Since the Broker was clearly meeting with a client now (or a prospective client), Cosimo began gathering up the insurance information and financial books. Playing the part of the dutiful secretary that he was. 

“Just give yourself another option.” It almost sounded like Battle was pleading with his son. “Diversify your portfolio.” A pause. “Ave helped me out once when I was younger than you are now. If you ever need anything, I want you to know that you can come to him.”

The Broker snorted. “Don’t be dumb, Pup, I turned ninety-three this year. I’m old. If you want your boy to have a safety net, you should be introducing him to Riv outside. Instead, you’re in here practically begging him to let me read him. You just want me to meet your son.” A silent little chuckle. “A proud father bragging about his boy.”

Warren might have felt flattered that he and his dad had only been reunited for a little over an hour, and Dad was proud enough to try bragging about him. But he actually stopped listening after one word. “Sorry. Did you just call him ‘Pup’? As in a puppy?”

Never, in all his nineteen years of life, had Warren ever met anyone (besides his mother) who was so unafraid of his father that they might give him a cute and fluffy nickname. When he was young, Mom –sometimes- called Dad ‘Bambi’, but only when they were alone. Usually in a context that Warren didn’t understand. Never around people to overhear. 

The Broker smiled. “Barron, here, is my little rescue pup.”

“A rescue pup?” Warren echoed, more confused than he was before. Like a rescue dog? An abused animal taken in and given a better home. Dad said the Broker helped him when he was younger than Warren was currently. Was that what they meant. 

The Broker shifted his attention to Battle. “I take it you never told him the circumstances that lead you to your life choices.”

“He was too young to understand before.” Battle reminded the old man. One did not discuss with children the events that shaped Battle’s motivations. “But that’s not why I brought him here.”

Not for the first time in this conversation, Warren glanced between the two men, not understanding what they were talking about. “I think I better check on Wi- uh, my friends outside.”

Warren tried to leave. Turing for the door. But Battle stopped him, both hands on the younger man’s shoulder’s pulling him back. He gently steered Warren back to the Broker. 

“Just shake his hand and let him look at you.” Battle insisted. “Take your mask off. Be polite.”

He was so insistent. 

More to just placate his father than out of any desire to make nice and form ties to the boss of the neutral-super underworld, Warren peeled off his latex mask and extended his hand to the Broker. His ungloved hand, the one Will had ripped the glove off of in order to check his pulse. They never found it in all the grass Layla grew in order to flood the scene with pollen. 

The old man’s hand was oddly soft. Not smooth. It was old and wrinkled, gnarled almost. The way the skin sat on the bone making them look knotted up. But when Warren took the hand, those wrinkled knots folded under the light pressure. Soft old-person skin. The Broker squeezed his hand, making the younger man gasp in surprise. He was deceptively strong for an old man. Then again, all supers were deceptively strong for whatever they were. 

He pulled Warren in close. So close, their noses were almost touching. Staring at each other, eyes-to-eyes. 

Warren gasped again when he saw the old man’s irises go wide. Dilating to the point that there was almost no color left in them. The pupil going wide. Just a circle of deep, infinite, black. A darkness without end. Like the darkness of a void. A void Warren couldn’t look away from, a void Warren couldn’t help but stare into… and know that the void was staring back at him. Not just staring back at him, but into him. 

Past the walls he built up to keep people out. At first finding the weak points, the pathways Layla had cracked open in his emotional armor and forced her way in, allowing a door for Stronghold and the rest of their friends to worm their way in as well. Circling the inner side of his outer most wall. As deep as he allowed his feelings for Magenta, Zach, and Ethan to go –maybe the Commander as well. Then going deeper, poking through his second barrier, a wide grill of smoldering red coals. His deeper feelings, where his attachments to Layla and Will managed to take root. 

He felt the void push deeper, finding the ring of live flame he kept around his heart. A circle of burning hot fire, willing away anything that dared to delve that deep. Warren didn’t let anything get in that deep. Nothing new. Nothing that hadn’t already penetrated before he was able to stoke his fires and build up his defenses. His conflicting feelings of love and resentment, confusion and betrayal for his father. Concern for his mother. Determination to prove that he was a hero to spite what the rest of the world might thing –because of what the rest of the world might think- to prove to the world that he wasn’t a villain, that he could be trusted, that he wasn’t evil. These were solid. The foundations of his core. The feelings that defined him as a person. 

The void skirted the edges of that core fire, not trying to probe into it. Respecting the burning boundary. Instead of penetrating the ring of fire, searching below it. Deeper into the boy than he was even aware of sensing a second power. Down in the dark. Rooted in an abyss of it’s own. An abyss, not a void. Dark and deep, but also not empty. There was power there. It was full of power. Cold power. Not like fire at all. Dark, too. Dry and silent as a grave. An abyss very similar to what Battle carried inside of him. 

Releasing the boy’s hand, the Broker took a step back. 

“What the heck was that!?” Warren gasped. 

His father’s hands were on his shoulders again. Giving a proud little squeeze that was probably supposed to be affectionate and encouraging. But Warren barely felt it, he was just staring at the Broker as if he was the most terrifying super in the whole world. 

“Well, Ave?” A person could hear the smile in Battle’s voice. “Isn’t my boy amazing!”

The Broker held Warren’s eyes for a moment longer. Not still looking into him. His pupils had returned to normal, no longer using his powers. Just the look of an old man who had seen more than his fair share of over-excited parents who all thought their child was something special, and the exasperated children who just wanted their over-proud parent to just relax. 

“Like most young supers, he hasn’t yet realized his full potential.” Answered the Broker diplomatically. 

Battle gave Warren an affectionate little smack on the back. “Hear that, Little Soldier! You’re gonna get even more powerful!”

Warren offered his father an insincere smile. Not sure if ‘more powerful’ was what he wanted to be. He’d settle for just ‘taken seriously as a hero and not suspected of villain for not tangible reason’.

“But it’s a good thing he already has a job.” Continued the Broker. “Because I have no work for him.”

“What?” Battle’s smile fell. Like he was disappointed. Like he preferred the idea of his son working for a shadowy fringe group that skirted the edges of both sides without ever taking either. Instead of becoming a household name hero. A beacon of justice and hope. Something to be looked up to. Instead, Battle wanted his son to be… hidden. 

“He’s not suited to the work we offer.” Explained the Broker, but that was all the explanation he offered. He quickly changed the subject. “I’d rather talk about you.”

“Me?” Echoed Battle. 

“I should let you two talk.” Warren tried to jump on that as his chance to flee. Go back outside. They must have finished cleaning Will’s face by now. 

But the Broker stopped him. “No. Stay. This will concern you too.” Focusing his attention back on Battle, the old man asked, “You’re working with the Commander now. Have you given any thought to what comes after that?”

No longer enjoying this meeting, Battle glared at the older man. “What do you mean? You think the Commander and I will kiss and make up? Become best pals and continue to work together like an episode of some after school Disney show?”

“No.” The Broker assured him. “You escaped from prison and are a fugitive. Your original sentence was for life-“ multiple lives, but that was an immaterial detail at the moment “-and evading apprehension will add time onto that sentence. Do you plan to just quietly go back? Or are you going to continue to run?”

Warren cast his father a cautious, questioning glance. He hadn’t even thought about that. Everything was happening so fast. His only thoughts of ‘what comes next’ were in the genre of making sure his father didn’t murder his best friend or his mentor. He didn’t consider his father going back to prison –not seriously. He knew it had to happen, but in the same way he knew the sun would one day expand and swallow the earth, or that he’d one day get old. It wasn’t real in his mind. And he certainly didn’t consider his father continuing to run. Stay a fugitive and stay out of jail. Was that even an option? How could it be? Warren was a hero-in-training, it was his job to make sure his father went back to jail. 

“This is something you should think about too.” The Broker informed Warren. “Because, if your father chooses to run, he’s going to want you to come with him.”

Both Warren and Battle looked at each other. The Broker was right. He saw it in his father’s face the moment their eyes met. Now that they were finally reunited, Dad didn’t want to leave him. Mom would want to go with Dad. That much Warren already knew. She had never said anything or alluded to it. But there wasn’t anything for her here in Maxville anymore. She didn’t have any friends left. Her day-job wasn’t fulfilling. Her hero work was more of a chore to keep up appearances. If Dad decided to run, Mom would go with him, Dad wouldn’t even have to ask. Warren was their only child. Neither of them would want to leave him behind. 

But Warren wouldn’t go. 

As sure as he was that his mother would go. As sure as he knew that they both would want him to come with them. That’s how sure he was that he wouldn’t. 

And as easily as Warren read his father’s eyes, Battle read Warren’s. The older man knew his son wouldn’t go. Wouldn’t come with him. If he did choose to run, to remain a fugitive, then he would never see his son again. If Warren ever crossed paths with Battle again, he would be honor bound as a superhero to arrest his father and bring the older man to justice. 

Both men frowned. 

“Something to consider.” Announced the Broker. 

Warren looked at his feet. He didn’t know what he was expecting. It wasn’t like he got to see his father while he was in Solitary either. One way or another, after this once-in-a-lifetime team-up, Warren would never see his father again. 

Still frowning, Battle glared at the Broker. “But you have a solution.”

“Not a solution.” He corrected. “A suggestion. You’re working with the Commander right now. You’re helping to apprehend a supervillain and save the city. You’re being a hero.” Battle made a face of disgust. “Oh, unclench. You married a hero, you don’t get to look down on them. My point is, you’re helping the good guys. Use that. Get your attorney to argue for lenience. Less time in Solitary. More visits with your family. Conjugal visits with that bombshell of yours. Hell! Maybe even a reduced sentence so you can get out before your son’s as old as me.”

All of that actually sounded amazing to Warren. 

“I can talk to the Commander.” He volunteered, irrationally optimistic. “Maybe if you don’t stab him when this is done, he’d be willing to speak on your behalf.”

Battle glared at both of them, not liking a thing either of them were saying. Be a hero. Play nice with Steve. Heresy! But… time out of Solitary… allowed to see Warren… conjugal visits with Mara… But if he ran, he wouldn’t have to put up with scheduled conjugal visits, he and Mara could just make love whenever they wanted. But if he ran, he’d never see his son again. But his son wasn’t a child anymore, Warren was an adult, making his own life. He didn’t need his old man hanging around. 

“Dad…” Warren’s ungloved hand wrapped around his father’s wrist. The boy’s skin uncommonly warm. Warm like Mara was. Fire users ran hot. The stark contrast in the ambient temperature of the club, and the hand grabbing him made Battle start and he stared into the wide brown eyes of his son –eyes identical to his own. “Will you at least consider it?”

He pulled his hand out of the younger man’s grip. “I didn’t bring you in here so I could get ganged up on.”

“We’re not ganging up on you, Dad.” Warren insisted. 

“It doesn’t matter if we gang up on you or not.” Scoffed the Broker. “No matter what anyone says, you’ll do what you want. Like you’ve always done.” He made a quick glance to Warren, then back to Battle. “So, while you’re trying to figure out what you want, take a moment to consider what your son wants and what’s good for you.”

It looked like Battle was going to argue further. His hands balled into fists. Mouth a hard, down turned line. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, Battle grit his teeth, grabbed his son by the shoulder and turned back to the door. “Put your mask back on, Little Soldier. Your idiot friend’s probably all patched up by now.”

Warren let his father pull him back out of the club. 

It was late in the day by this point. Late enough to no longer be considered ‘afternoon’. The sun was beginning to bend its arch down behind the taller of the buildings that still stood, casting oddly slanted shadows over the streets. 

Sure enough, Will was done having his wounds cleaned. He seemed to be helping a number of other volunteers strip the bark off a willow tree that hadn’t been there when they went in the building. All the strips of bark they peeled were then carried over to where Flamebird was boiling buckets of water. 

“Willow is a natural painkiller.” Battle explained in his son’s ear. “It’s what they make aspirin from.”

“Layla has a good heart.” Warren muttered back. “She doesn’t like to see people suffer.”

He crossed the space to where his mother was boiling the willow into a tea and offered his own fire for help. Battle followed the younger man’s back with his eyes. If he decided to run, Warren wouldn’t go with him. Not just because he was young, idealistic, and trying to be a hero. But because he had roots here. In Maxville, and in the super community. Friends like Steve’s brat, and more-than-friends-interests like Layla. Warren had more reasons to stay than to leave. If forced to make a choice, he would not choose the estranged supervillain father he hadn’t seen in a decade. 

Following his son, Battle crossed the street over to where both fire users were now boiling the tea. He thought it was interesting that while Warren still had to light his arms on fire, bright red and orange tongues of flame licking the metal buckets, Mara didn’t seem to be using any visible flame at all. She just placed her hands against the metal side and the water bubbled and steamed. The metal of the bucket glowing red hot. She must have gotten more powerful over the years as well. Battle had never seen her use raw heat without flame before. 

“That’s amazing, Sparky!” He commented. 

Flamebird looked up, startled. Almost as if he’d caught her in a big secret. Warren also looked up, equally startled, but also… concerned? Why would he be concerned about a super with fire-based powers using their heat to help people? 

“It’s just a menial task.” She muttered. 

“Uh, I meant-“

He was cut off when the Commander up to them. “Are you done introducing my protégé to your criminal contacts?”

Battle wheeled around. He entertained the idea of throwing one of the buckets of boiling water in the man’s face. It wouldn’t kill him, but he’d certainly have second degree burns. But Battle also promised to play nice, so he swallowed the impulse. “I’m done introducing my son to an old friend, yes. Is your wife done fussing over your invalid boy?”

“My son is not an invalid!” Roared the Commander, voice a loud and deep overreaction. It made other people raise their heads and turn to stare at them. “My son is the second strongest person in this city! My son can fly faster than the speed of sound! My son-“

“Okay, okay. We get it.” Battle cut him off, not as amused by Steve’s reaction as he thought he would be when he set the bait. “Your son’s the golden boy, just like you were.”

Jetstream was at her husband’s side within seconds. “Stop making a scene!” She hissed. “Not only is it not heroic, but you’re risking blowing our family’s secret identities.” 

Battle and Flamebird exchanged a look. Neither of them saw how shouting about their child might reveal their secret identities. Their son was grown. Wearing a hero costume of his own. No one mentioned any names. There was nothing that could give even hints as to their civilian identities. Josie just didn’t like the idea of the public eye seeing that the Commander had a temper, or that their family might be anything but ideal. They were supposed to be the quintessential modern nuclear family –with superpowers. The model all other families should aspire to. It wouldn’t do for them to appear as anything less than perfect. 

Will and Layla came over. Hearing Jetstream’s raised voice, they assumed Barron Battle and the Commander were exchanging threats again. They were relieved to see that wasn’t the case and Warren just look exasperated with his father –and everyone’s parents, actually- not concerned. 

Layla wasn’t the only one drawn by the raised voices of the two most famous heroes in the whole city. Before anyone even knew they were in the camp, Magenta, Zach, and Ethan seemed to just materialize out of the crowd. 

“Why’s the Commander so mad?” Asked Ethan, eyes focusing on Warren. “What’d you do?” 

“Me?” Warren was insulted. “I didn’t do anything! They’re the ones that are acting like children!” He pointed to the seasoned heroes and villain.

“Who’s the old guy?” Zach looked Battle up and down, not realizing who he was and unimpressed. 

Battle sputtered. ‘Old guy’? He was the same age as Jetstream and the Commander! Younger, actually! By only a few months, but that still made him younger. If the Commander wasn’t ‘old’ then Battle wasn’t ‘old’ either! Who even got to decide if a person was old, anyway? Not some punk kid who was barley eighteen and still very much a child themselves –legal adult status be damned. 

“You’re dumb.” Magenta gave the tall blond that Battle was seriously considering teaching some manners to a light smack. “Look at his costume. Look at his face.”

The light wielder gave the ‘old guy’ another appraising look. Longer this time. Paying more attention to details. Tall. About six-two, the same height as Warren, actually. Also wearing all black, just like Warren. A leather shirt-vest with buckles on the shoulders and sides. Shoulders and forearms bear, displaying sculpted muscles –he was pretty fit for a guy who looked old enough to be someone’s dad. Hair was longish for a man, and curly. It framed his eyes which were hidden behind a pair of wire-framed glasses. The old guy still did not look very impressive. 

“What am I supposed to be seeing?” Zach asked. 

Battle snorted. Suddenly not as insulted as he was before. This kid wasn’t rude, he was just –as the girl said- dumb. “Over-confident but not very bright.” He observed, fishing Warren’s letter out of his pocket. “You must be the Glowstick.”

“Zach Attack.” Zach corrected. 

“Mm-hm. You shouldn’t have your real name in your hero name.” Battle informed the younger man, not really caring. He skimmed the letter, searching for the passages that weren’t about how the sun caught on Layla’s hair, or how the green dress she wore to prom made her look like the goddess Persephone, or how she was so empathetic and clever that Stronghold didn’t deserve her. Finally, he found a paragraph about the rest of the entourage. “That means that you’re the Guinea Pig and you must be Popsickle –or Slick, he flip-flops back and forth between the two names.”

Realizing what it was his father was leafing through, Warren put his face in his hands. How mortifying, to have your father blurt out all the aliases you used to avoid calling your friends by their real names. 

The kids all exchanged a series of looks between each other. 

“None of those are our hero names.” Magenta informed him. 

“What is that?” Ethan asked, nodding to the paper.

“Oh, this?” Battle reverently folded it back up and replaced it in his pocket where it would be safe. “It’s a letter from my son.”

“Who’s your son, and how does he know us?” Demanded Zach.

“Please don’t antagonize him!” Ethan pleaded. He, like Magenta, knew how to recognize resemblance between old guys and the young men they might be related to. Like Magenta, it only took Ethan one look at the man’s face to know that he was related to Warren. Related to Warren and old enough to be someone’s dad. There was a massive prison break recently and Warren’s supervillain father was one of the ones that escaped. Really, it did not take a lot of brain power. “This is Barron Battle.”

Zach gasped. Actually gasped. Like, with shock. He was truly and legitimately surprised by this revelation. He looked to the Commander and Jetstream for cues. They were the ones who arrested Battle in the first place. They were the world’s greatest heroes. They would know how to handle them. They would know what to do. 

The Commander was pinching the bridge of his nose.

Jetstream was massaging her temples. 

They didn’t look like they were about to launch into an epic, climactic battle to re-apprehend the supervillain. Instead they looked… annoyed. Exasperated almost. Like how his parents looked some times when he started talking about how he was invincible. Destined for greatness. Or that ‘Zach Attack’ was a great hero name. 

Clearly, fighting Barron Battle was not on the agenda yet. 

“Your friends are cute.” Battle informed his son. 

Warren just groaned. His friends were geeky and annoying. And if his father had been literally any other supervillain on the planet, they’d all be fighting for their lives right now.

“Since we’re all here and done doing what we came here to do,” Layla clapped her hands together, bringing everyone’s attention to her. A voice of reason and a direction of focus in their group that had just lost focus upon meeting Warren’s infamous father. (He was not as impressive as his reputation led one to believe.) “Let’s work together on finding Faultline.”

“Faultline?” Echoed Magenta. 

“That supervillain Will’s mentor was obsessed with?” Ethan asked remembering Will mentioning something over lunch. 

Layla nodded. “Mr. Battle thinks she might have caused the quake in the first place.”

“That makes sense.” Ethan pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This didn’t feel like a normal quake and there haven’t been any aftershocks. It’s more likely to be a supervillain plot than a natural disaster.” 

Battle quickly decided that he liked this kid. He was smart. Why couldn’t Warren be best friends with Slick the Popsicle instead of Steve’s brat?

“So, the next thing we have to figure out is how to find Faultline.” Magenta nodded, accepting this logic. 

“Wait, who invited you all along?” Warren cut in. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t think his friends were capable of handling themselves against a supervillain. He was there just as much as they were at prom when they all joined forces to defeat Royal Pain. He saw just how capable, clever, and talented they all were. It was not his friends’ abilities he was doubting when he didn’t want to the come along. …It was his father’s patience. Battle was already on edge thanks to having to work with Steve Stronghold, Warren didn’t know if his father’s nerves could put up with the extra strain of having to listen to six teenagers and their banter. (Sometimes Warren had trouble putting up with his friends and their banter.)

“We’re inviting ourselves. Obviously.” Magenta informed him tersely. “You didn’t think we’d let you, Will, and Layla hog all the glory, did you?”

“Don’t use people’s real names if they’re in costume!” Flamebird snarled at all the children. Sweeping the group with her eyes. “And where are all your mentors? What do they think of this?”

“I never know what Wraith thinks.” Zach informed the group. “He never talks.”

“Hardplace is over there.” Ethan pointed to where his young mentor was sitting on a stack of semi-neat bricks, getting his leg bandaged by a MASH camp volunteer. He wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. 

“Hey! Titan!” Magenta called across the crowd to the mountain-sized man talking to Rivkah Wechsler. “I’m going with these guys! ‘Kay?”

He looked up at his protégé’s call. The giant’s eyes going wide when he recognized Barron Battle standing with her. 

Battle flashed a smirk and waved at the other super. As if they were old friends. “Never thought you’d see me again after Bosnia, huh!” He shouted across the crowd. “Well, guess what? I live bitch!”

Titan frowned. His eyes shifted to the Commander. Standing next to Battle. Not looking hostile, ready to fight, or even suspicious. Apparently, at the moment, the other hero did not perceive Barron Battle to be a threat. In fact, the Commander looked more exasperated and embarrassed, than protective and suspicious. So, for the moment, Battle was not a threat. 

That was the thing with Barron Battle. He wasn’t like other supervillains. He didn’t care about the struggled of good versus evil. He didn’t do the things he did based on some personal code, or warped ethics. He didn’t have lofty or absurd goals of taking over the world or killing all humans. He did the things he did based on what was most profitable to him. At the moment, what would be most profitable to him would be working with the heroes to help the city. Not just because it was where his son and his too-hot-for-him wife lived, but also because helping the heroes would work in his father when the Commander did re-apprehend him and send him back to prison. 

Battle was an obnoxious bastard. But he was a smart obnoxious bastard. 

Titan nodded to Magenta. “Be carful and if that one gives you trouble, stick close to that moody friend of yours.”

Magenta snorted. Amused. “Warren, you’re protect me if your daddy gets mad, right.”

The pyrokinetic just put his face in his hands again. “If you’re all done embarrassing each other-“ by ‘each other’ he meant himself “-can we please try and figure out how to find Faultline?”

“He’s right.” Will nodded, thinking he was coming to his best friend’s defense. “We need to focus on what’s important.”

Battle sighed. Exasperated. He shook his head, almost as if he were disappointed. “Not quite as dumb as your father, but still not smart as your mother either.” He scoffed at the Stronghold boy. “The epicenter was in the middle of the city. We’re in Downtown right now, so it’s gotta be close to where we are. So, take a look around. Anything seem out of place?”

“Everything’s out of place.” Layla informed him. The whole city was shaken up.

Battle glanced at his son. “Little Soldier, you wanna take this one?”

“Uh, I, uh, I don’t know either.” He flushed under his mask, embarrassed and disappointed in himself for not knowing what his father seemed to think he should already know. 

Since none of them seemed to get it, Battle decided he would just have to step into the role of the mentor now. Since their own mentors and that damn school clearly hadn’t done their job. “Okay, after a disaster, when everything’s out of place, you look for the one thing that’s still in place.” He told them. “Look around. What hasn’t been affected by the quake?”

They all looked around. 

Even Steve and Josie glanced from side to side, searching for something that wasn’t as broken or destroyed as everything else around it. 

“The Spear!” Will blurted out. 

Everyone stared at him. 

“When I took Warren to the Spear earlier it looked fine.” He elaborated. “The power was out. But that was it. It was still upright. The stairs were clear and the doors worked. The building wasn’t even leaning or anything. It’s gotta be the Spear, right?”

Everyone looked to the building. Rising above the rest of Downtown. Standing straight up. Perfectly vertical. Not leaning or listing like a lot of the buildings around it. Stable. Seemingly untouched by the earthquake. 

Battle nodded. “Keep being smart like that Baby-Stronghold and I might start to doubt that you’re Steve’s spawn at all.”

Josie was insulted. 

Battle ignored her. 

“We were at the Spear earlier.” Warren informed his father. “I didn’t see anything suspicious.”

“Did you check the basement?” Battle asked his son, already knowing the answer. If they went there looking for him, then they would go straight to their old condo. Where they used to live. If Steve’s son was a flyer, then they’d enter and exit through the roof, not the ground floor lobby. They were never even pass near the basement access. They wouldn’t have been looking where they needed to. “For something on this scale, Terra would need to be underground.”

“We can’t go underground!” Josie snapped. “She’ll have the advantage down there!”

Not only would a super with earth-based powers have the advantage underground, but flyers like Josie and Will would have their own powers neutralized. Flight becomes less impressive and less useful when there’s a celling over you. Boxed in and in a tight space. No wonder Terra had been Josie’s arch nemesis. Their powers were almost polar opposites of each other. 

“Listen,” Battle looked each of them in the eyes. Not just Josie and Steve, but the kids too. Warren, Layla, Steve’s brat, Glowstick, Guinea Pig, and Slick. He even gave his wife a healthy dose of his stare. Deep brown eyes full of danger, reminding everyone who he was, what he did. He was a hired killer. He killed for a living. That was the kind of supervillain he was. He was a hunter. A predator. He knew what he was doing. “If you want to kill a bear, you corner it in its cave.”

“Really?” Warren sounded so skeptical. The biggest thing he’d ever seen his father hunt was a deer. “You do much bear killing up in the mountains?”

“I’ll have you know, I-“ He cut himself off abruptly. Staring at Warren. The implications of what his son just said catching up with him. “Who told you I’m from the mountains? Your mother didn’t tell you that!”

There was a distinct shift in the atmosphere. The rest of the kids didn’t understand what just happened. It seemed like Battle was on their team. They were going over the plan. Then, all of a sudden, the wind changed and now Battle was super pissed about something none of them understood. 

Flamebird took her son’s hand. “Warren?”

The pyrokinetic looked down, feeling like he’d done something wrong somehow. “The Commander told me.” He explained. “He took me to your old house.”

“He did what!?” Battle rounded on the Commander. 

It was the same level of vehemence as earlier, when Battle unintentionally turned his rage on Warren. Steve took an unconscious step back. Battle didn’t have super-strength like he did. It took a lot of effort on Battle’s part to hurt him. But he knew from personal experience that Barron Battle could hurt him, and as angry as he sounded in that moment, there was no doubt in Steve’s mind that Battle would clock him if Warren didn’t intervene. 

The pyrokinetic practically jumped on his father, wrapping his arms around him. “Whoa, whoa.” He muttered. “Don’t stab him. Think of after this is over. Think of time out of solitary, being able to see me,” an uncomfortable pause “conjugal visits with mom.”

Steve had no idea what the boy was talking about. Battle was confined to Solitary for almost the entirety of his prison sentence. He didn’t get visits with his family and he sure as hell didn’t unsupervised time alone with his wife!

Battle did not attack the Commander. But he did continue to glare daggers at the man, as if trying to murder him with his eyes alone. 

“You had no right to do that, Steve.” He snarled, using the Commanders real name. Hoping the people around them heard and that his secret identity was blown wide open. Fuck Steve Stronghold, and fuck his identity! “That’s my past and has nothing to do with my son.”

The Commander opened his mouth to argue. That his past did have to do with his son. Warren was trying to be a hero and that house was where Battle grew up with his father –whom was a hero. Warren’s father might be a supervillain, but his grandfather was a superhero. He deserved to know that. But before Steve could say anything, he was just off. Flamebird cleared her throat and spoke before he could. 

“We’re burning daylight.” She announced. One slender hand squeezed Battle’s arm. “There’ll be time to yell at the Commander later.” She told her husband. “Uh, Soldier, let your father go. The rest of you, let’s get moving.”

Warren eased his hold on his father, just to test if the older man was going to attack his mentor or not. When she was satisfied that Battle was not going to try and stab the Commander right away, he let him go for real. “My hero name’s not gonna be ‘Soldier’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Deleted Scene**
> 
> _(( Exclusive for my readers here on AO3, a deleted scene from this chapter. Readers on ff.n and Tumblr don't get this content! ))_
> 
> “If you want to kill a bear, you corner it in its cave.”
> 
> “Really?” Warren sounded so skeptical. The biggest thing he’d ever seen his father hunt was a deer. “You do much bear killing up in the mountains?”
> 
> “I’ll have you know, I-“ He cut himself off abruptly. Staring at Warren. The implications of what his son just said catching up with him. “Who told you I’m from the mountains? Your mother didn’t tell you that!”
> 
> There was a distinct shift in the atmosphere. The rest of the kids didn’t understand what just happened. It seemed like Battle was on their team. They were going over the plan. Then, all of a sudden, the wind changed and now Battle was super pissed about something none of them understood. 
> 
> Flamebird took her son’s hand. “Warren?”
> 
> The pyrokinetic looked down, feeling like he’d done something wrong somehow. “The Commander told me.” He explained. “He took me to your old house.”
> 
> “He did what!?” Battle rounded on the Commander. 
> 
> “Where the fuck do you get off-“ He snarled, almost spitting at the other man. Gone was fun joking and comradery. The light teasing and casual antagonism. This was deep-seeded rage. Deeper than anything that could have stemmed from high school. “How _dare_ you take my son there! You have no idea what that place is! You have no idea what happened there! You had no right to take him there!”
> 
> Everybody was thrown off balance. 
> 
> It was such a strong reaction. 
> 
> Mara was the only one who didn’t seem phased. She placed what she hoped would be a calming hand on her husband’s arm. “Barron, they don’t understand.”
> 
> “I don’t get it.” Steve announced, ignoring his instincts for self-preservation that were telling him to just apologize and let the subject drop. It was stupid for Battle to be this upset over a place he hadn’t returned to in thirty years. “That’s where you lived with Paladin. He was one of the greatest heroes of his generation. He teamed up with my father a couple times. He was great! Why wouldn’t you want me to show your son the place where he lived?”
> 
> A rumble of surprise shuddered through the group. Barron Battle’s father was a hero? How weird. For some reason, they all always imagine Battle coming from a long line of villains –after all, the family name was ‘Battle’, not very valiant and heroic sounding. Either that, or he came from mundane parents and was the first in his line to have superpowers. None of them imagined he might have had a hero parent. That meant that Warren came from more hero stock than Will did. Burhawk and Dove on his mother’s side, and now this Paladin guy on his father’s side. 
> 
> But then, if Barron Battle’s father was a hero, why’d Battle become a villain…?
> 
> “Oh, yeah, Paladin was so great.” Battle scoffed. Spitting every word as if it were putrid poison. “He would go off and help the Admiral end the civil war in Lebanon, then come home and beat this shit out of my mom! He was a real great hero!”
> 
> Whoa. 
> 
> There was a lot of raw emotion there. Well into his forties now, pushing fifty years old, and Barron Battle still carried the trauma of growing up with an abusive parent. 
> 
> “Heroes are supposed to protect people.” Battle growled. Low in the back of his throat. An almost feral sound. “Not hurt people weaker than themselves. Not people they’re supposed to love. They’re not supposed to kill their son’s mothers. You have no idea what went on in that house, Steve. You saw me at school. We were not friends. You didn’t know my life. You didn’t know what happened when I went home! Every fucking decision I ever made in my life was made to distance myself from that past, and that house, and _him_.”


	14. Spear Security

The sun was dipping low, close to the horizon. Throwing long shadows across the broken streets. No building threw a longer shadow than the Spear. The only building still standing tall. Above the rest of the sky line. Not leaning, not listing. Stable. Upright. 

Battle held the door open for Flamebird and Warren, he also let the rest of the kids though too. He stepped in himself and let the door smack shut behind him before the Commander and Jetstream could enter. Like fuck was he gonna hold the door for Steve Stronghold! 

Steve wrenched the door open, pulling it clean off its hinges. “Real mature, Barron!”

The other man only shrugged. 

Battle glanced around the lobby of the Spear. When he used to live here back in the eighties, it was decorated in bright colors. Seafoam green, yellow and pink. In the nineties the décor was swapped out for a darker more elegant aesthetic, burgundies and taupe. Now, it seemed they were going for a more sterile utilitarian look. White, gray, and chrome. Battle wrinkled his nose. If he were still living there, paying HOA fees, and attending Home Owner Association meetings, he would have insisted they go with something easier to keep clean. Blacks and reds instead of whites and chromes. 

Both the reception and the security desks were fully staffed and well manned. The security looked up first when the group of costumed supers entered, but it was the receptionist who spoke first. 

“May I help you?” Asked a young woman with a well-practiced customer service smile. The kind of smile that made a person feel good about being told ‘no’ and ‘get the hell out’. The concierge from back when he lived here was never so polite.

“We need access to the basement levels.” Announced the Commander. From his tone alone, it was clear and apparent that Steve Stronghold was used getting what he wanted. 

The head of security stepped forward, flanked by two of his lieutenants. All wearing finely tailored but practically cut black suits. They were loose enough when standing still to hide the fact that they all carried guns, but when each man moved, the lapel shifted enough to show the strap of the holster. The Spear never did skimp on security. The privacy and comfort of its residents was always the HOA’s biggest priority. It was one of the reasons why Battle loved living in the building. 

To spite it being so late in the day, the sun fading and the power still out –to spite it getting dark- all three security guys wore dark shades over their eyes. The leader stepped forward, taking his shades off to make eye-contact with the Commander. 

“Of course, the Spear is always happy to cooperate with law enforcement and heroes.” He began. “I will happily escort you to the basement levels. May I see the warrant so I know what areas are covered?”

Really. Battle really, really, really loved the Spear’s security. They knew who their residents were, and they knew what their job was. ‘Protect the residents and their interests.’ Battle was actually very upset Mara decided to sell their condo and move to shitville Max Adj. 

Then he recognized the head of security. “Wait, Taggart! Hey!”

The head of security blinked. His attention shifted from the Commander to Battle. Eyes going wide with recognition. “Wait, forty-second floor, unit B? Battle! You old so-and-so! You outta jail?”

“Good behavior.” Battle laughed. 

The chief of security, Taggart, laughed. As if Battle were an old friend he hadn’t seen in a long time. “This guy-“ he turned to his two lieutenants, still smiling “-this is the resident I told you about. The super that would drive the rest of the residents crazy!”

The two other security guards exchanged an uncomfortable look. “The- the one from the balcony story?”

Next to Warren, Flamebird put her face in her hands. He rarely ever saw his mother embarrassed. Mara Peace had almost no shame. She used to pose in her hero costume for girly calendars and pin-up magazines. She was not bashful and did not embarrass easily. “I’m never gonna live that down…” she muttered into her hands. 

“Yeah!” Taggart nodded. “Yeah. This is him!”

“What, um… what’s the balcony story?” Layla asked, hesitantly. Not sure if she had the right to pry, but also too curious not to. 

“This guy’s super-hot trophy-wife pushed him off his balcony!” Announced Taggart. “I was just the doorman back then, and I’m holding it open for Ms. Fifteen-C and all her damn poodles. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, splat! A body comes plummeting down onto the sidewalk in front of the building. It was like a water balloon! The stomach’s burst open and the guts are out, there’s blood on the pavement, and there’s blood on the windows, and there’s blood on me, and there’s blood on Ms. Fifteen-C, and there’s blood on the poodles!” 

The other two security guards were grinning. They loved this story, apparently. 

Flamebird was mimicking a pose Warren often assumed when he was so embarrassed he might very well burst into flames. She didn’t. But she looked like she might. 

“Anyway,” continued Taggart, “I’m just standing there, staring because I’ve seen some pretty gross shit in combat, but this is a totally different context and I’m kinda having trouble processing what I just saw. The poodles are licking some of the guts and brain off the ground and this super hot babe comes running out of the elevators. Wearing nothing but a man’s shirt, and she’s crying and shouting, asking the body if it’s okay, as if she expects a dead body to answer. She bends down, to shake the body, or whatever, and you can see she’s wearing literally nothing under that shirt. And this chick was hot! I mean like, super-model, or Hollywood bombshell, or porn star hot! I’d seen her around the building before, but never so much of her, ya know. There were tattoos where I didn’t imagine any, and what I thought would be landscaped was bare, what I thought would be pink was… a different shade of pink.” A pause. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, that’s when the body sit’s up, with a bit of a gasp, and I about shit myself! And that’s how I found out that the guy in Forty-Two-B with the super-hot trophy-wife was a supervillain.”

Warren looked at his mother. He’d never heard that story before –or any version of it. He was used to being embarrassed by people finding his mother attractive. He was not used to seeing his mother embarrassed by people ogling her intimate areas. “You okay there, Mom?”

“Your father hasn’t gotten to the part I hate yet.” She muttered back. 

“That’s not how it happened.” Battle informed the other man. “She didn’t push me.”

“Thank you!” Flamebird raised her head enough to look at her husband. She was relived. As if he wasn’t going to share the embarrassing part that embarrassed her. 

“She kicked me.” Battle smiled. 

“Why don’t you tell them what you were doing!” Snarled Flamebird. “This monster was tickling me! And I just sort of spasm, then, next thing I know he’s street pizza.”

“Worth it.” Battle grinned. 

Flamebird huffed. 

The three security guards all looked from Battle to Flamebird. 

“Wait…” Taggart began. “You’re not the hot wife. Are you? But- you’re Flamebird. You’re a hero! I still have your centerfold from the 1990 summer issue of Girls of Heroism!”

Battle only smirked. 

Frustrated and impatient, Jetstream threw her arms up in exasperation. “Okay. We get it. Flamebird was very good at showing off her butt.” 

The disapproval in Josie’s voice was so close to the boarder of scorn that she might as well have been calling Warren’s mother a ‘slut’. At least, that’s what Barron heard and he turned his attention from Taggart to Jetstream. Murder in his eyes. He knew his wife was a very attractive woman –it was kinda hard to miss- and very attractive women who also had the confidence to show off just how attractive they were often came under fire as being ‘indecent’, ‘immodest’, or ‘whores’. Battle liked it when other men –and some women to be fair- admired his wife. It made him feel… validated somehow. Mara was a perfect ten. He was, like, a low eight. Yet, he was the one she chose. The one she married. The one she stayed with. Anyone who dared insult her honor could answer to him. 

The Commander inserted himself between Battle and his wife. Protecting Jetstream and hoping to bring everyone’s attention back to the matter at hand. “Since it seems we’re all old friends, maybe we can all head to the basement now?”

The tension between Battle and the Strongholds didn’t so much dissipate as it was replaced by stiff professionalism from the Spear’s security. “Sorry. But since none of you are current residents, and you have no warrant, I can’t allow you beyond the lobby.”

“Taggart, it’s in your best interest to just let us go.” Battle informed him, impatient and frustrated. 

“I’m gonna stop you right there, former-Forty-two-B.” Taggart put his shades back on over his eyes. “Seeing as how you’re in the company of a bunch of heroes, I’m sure you’re gonna give me some speech about justice, or helping the needy, or serving the greater good. But, as someone who used to pay our absurd HOA fees, you should know that I’m paid enough not to care about that. I bought a boat with my Christmas bonus last year. Cash. Upfront. No loan. I don’t even know what I’m gonna do with a boat. The nearest body of water big enough for it is five hundred miles away. But I’ve got a boat!”

Battle shook his head. “No. Taggart. I’m a supervillain. If you’re in my way, I’ll just kill you.”

Both Warren and the Commander placed hands on Battle’s shoulders. 

“Whoa, whoa.” Said Warren. 

“Nobody’s killing anyone.” Asserted the Commander. 

Turning his head, Battle glared at the Commander’s hand on his shoulder. Slowly, very slowly, he lifted his eyes from the hand to glare murderously at the other man’s face. “Take it off, or I break it off.”

Steve had never moved his hand so quickly. It was almost lighting fast. “Okay. Still not a toucher. I get it.”

No, actually, Steve did not get it. But Battle wasn’t going to educate him. 

Warren was still holding onto his father; the only reason Battle wasn’t already snapping Taggart’s neck. “We don’t have to kill to get what we need.” He reminded his father. “You could just disable them.”

“We don’t use our powers to intimidate or strong-arm people!” The Commander had to remind his protégé. 

“But we do use our powers against henchmen or accessories to a crime.” Flamebird informed the group. “Taggart may not be a clear-cut henchmen, but by preventing us from getting to Faultline, he is making himself an accessory to the crime.”

Both the Commander and Jetstream looked at Flamebird as if they’d never seen her before. Neither of them had really ever spent much time with her. They really only knew Flamebird from reputation more than anything else. Josie always assumed she was just another bimbo with superpowers –the fire user certainly acted like a bimbo without a single critical thought in her airy head. They did not expect her to be clever and sneaky enough to exploit a technicality like that. By blocking the group from getting to Faultline, the Spear security were making themselves accessories to supervillainy. 

Warren –slowly- let go of his father. 

Battle cracked his knuckles. “Fingers or kneecaps, Taggart. Which’ll you miss most?”

In response to this, all three security guards reached into their suit blazers, pulling out their guns. 

Ethan gulped and melted into a puddle of nerves. He hadn’t yet been confronted with the possibility of having a gun pointed at him. That was one more thing they didn’t cover in school. Heroes didn’t use guns. But villain, henchmen, police, and security forces did use guns. 

Magenta assumed a defensive stance. One of the combat techniques they taught them in mass in school. A watered down and diluted bastardization of boxing and karate. Magenta took it, rolled with it, found herself an instructor, and improved on her combat skills outside of school. With a power like hers, one would have to rely on other skills when going up against villains. Magenta was very close to a level of skill that could be considered a ‘master’, and her stance was flawless. But martial arts didn’t work well against bullets. 

Zach struck a similar pose. Less disciplined, less practiced. His lines messier, the spread of his feet awkward, the placement of his hand too low to block anything of significance. It was the same stance taught to everyone in school. Zach did not see outside education for combat to spite the fact that he, too, had a power that required some extra skills for combat. He placed himself between Magenta and the pointed guns, as if he intended to use his –now glowing- body as a shield to protect her. 

Layla did not strike a defensive pose or combat stance. She saw the three guns pointed at her and her friends and gasped in horror. Her hands going over her mouth in disbelief. “You can’t hurt anyone! You’re security!” She moaned. “You’re supposed to protect people.”

Warren took another step away from his father. An action that also placed him in front of Layla. But it was unclear if the action was meant to shield her, or to give himself so space before lighting his arms on fire. It was a very smooth and subtle action. 

Will was far less graceful with his movement. He jumped from the near back of the group and flew the short space over their heads to place himself as a living shield in front of everyone. Blocking all of them from the possibility of being hit by a stray bullet. 

Battle scoffed and shoved the over-eager hero out of his way. “Move, Baby-Commander. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Rushing in, closing the space between himself and Taggart, Battle grabbed the man’s wrist. Squeezing hard and forcing his hand up. So that even if he did pull the trigger, the bullet would impotently impact the ceiling above them (a ceiling that was layers of concrete, insulation, and bracing with very little chance of it penetrating and hitting someone on a floor above). 

“Guns are a poor weapon choice in close quarters.” Battle growled to the other man. 

He might have said more, except one of Taggart’s lieutenants squeezed his trigger. The shot caught Battle in the chest. 

Not the center. Off to the side and low. Tearing through the ribs to penetrate a lung. Battle groaned. Turning his head, he leveled a glare at the other security guard as if to say, ‘Oh, you did not just do that!’ But when he opened his mouth to speak, blood came out first. Cough up as his lungs tried to purge themselves of the fluid –his own blood- that filled them. Wounds healed and holes closed, but blood still pooled. The ability to heal unnaturally fast did not miraculously clear the body of things trapped inside it when the holes did close. Blood in the lungs, and the fragments of a bullet against his spine. 

Battle spat out the blood as if he were hacking up phlegm. 

They couldn’t see the guard’s eyes behind his shades, but his eyebrows lifted as if his eyes were going wide. He squeezed the trigger two more times, hitting Battle in the shoulder and the stomach. Terrible, terrible shots. Aimed too far apart from each other, rather than in the tight cluster that was normally taught to marksmen. The guy was rattled and afraid. He’d never shot at a super before. He’d never shot at something that didn’t go down after taking one to the chest. 

The second lieutenant squeezed the trigger of his own gun. He, it seemed, was calmer and a better shot. The bullet tore through Battle’s skull and out the other side. Making an uncomfortable SQUISH sound as it did, and spattering blood, bone, and brain matter all over Taggart. 

Battle’s body collapsed to the ground. 

Layla screamed. 

Taggart straightened. Both hands on his gun, but not raising it to point at any of the other supers. They were all heroes. Shooting one of them would be a bad idea. Battle had been a supervillain. No one gave a shit if his body was riddled with bullets. 

Everyone else gasped in disbelief. Well, everyone but the Commander, Jetstream, and Flamebird …maybe Warren too. He was standing sandwiched between Will and Layla. Their gasps kinda overlapped. It was hard to tell if the pyrokinetic made a sound or not. Watching Mr. Battle kill Handless earlier didn’t really condition them for this. It was only the second time seeing someone die. They were not prepared to see a man’s head blown through. 

The temperature in the lobby began to inexplicably rise. Like hot anger radiating through their group. Making them all sweat in their costumes. They all looked to Warren, who’s arms were still on fire. 

But it was Flamebird who stepped through the group. With no regard for her personal safety. Walked right up to the one who made the head-shot on her husband, and grabbed the gun. 

The hand holding the gun, actually. But only because the hand was in the way of what she wanted. The grip where the clip was housed. The angle was all wrong for the rest of the group to see. Her body was in the way. But if they could have, they would have seen the man’s skin blacken with a third degree burn as her raw heat penetrated down to the handle of the gun. The heat igniting the powder. The gun burst in the man’s hand. Exploding. Taking his whole hand off at the wrist. Leaving behind a burned and bubbling stump. One brittle bone sticking out from the pulpy discolored stump, surrounded by a halo of black shrapnel from the gun. 

Unfazed, almost uncaring, Flamebird turned her masked glare on Taggart and the other remaining guard. “Anyone else wanna try and stop us?”

“You maimed him!” It was Jetstream that shouted that horrified accusation. Almost snarled with bitter venom. As if the fact that the other woman would maim a man so suddenly and callously, for simply doing his job, somehow confirmed that the so called ‘hero’ was not better than her supervillain husband. 

“He’s not dead.” Flamebird reminded the other woman in much the same way her husband did to her earlier in the day when he impaled Head Horn in the stomach. 

Jetstream did not look the least bit moved.

But Flamebird’s almost ruthless action did get Taggart and his second man to back down. If only a little bit. The gun was still out, but his finger was off the trigger now. 

Will put a hand on Warren’s shoulder. His friend had only just been reunited with his father a few short hours ago. And then, to lose him again so soon… Will could not even imagine what Warren must be feeling right now. “Dude, I- I’m so sorry.”

“Poor Mr. Battle.” Layla unzipped her jacket and laid it over the dead man’s face so that they didn’t have to look at his death mask. 

Skull cracked open like an egg. Face misshapen by the skull. One eye red, more like a giant blood-blister than an eyeball. The other, oddly pristine. Still brown in color. Rich and deep, like Warren’s eyes. But open and unblinking, staring at nothing. Mouth slightly open, lips still bloody from coughing up what was in his lungs from a few minutes before. None of them needed to see that dead face. So, Layla covered it with her jacket. 

There seemed to be a disconnect between Magenta’s brain and… the rest of her mind. She wanted to make some kind of snarky comment. Something to diffuse the tension. Like how anti-climactic that was. The Great Barron Battle, taken out by a powerless mundane with a gun. That he did not live up to his reputation. That he really was just an ‘old guy’. But all of her remarks were over ridden by the shock of having watched him die. She’d never seen anyone die before. She was not prepared. She kinda forgot how to think. 

Ethan and Zach were experiencing much the same thing. They stood there, just staring at Layla’s green jacket over his head. How did one handle witnessing a death? Surely superheroes saw death in their line of work. They couldn’t save everyone. Why didn’t the school prepare them for the event that they couldn’t save everyone? Why didn’t the school prepare them to see someone die? Right in front of them! 

The group was paralyzed. 

After the shocked silence settled, the Commander cleared his throat. “Give it a sec.”

“Wha-?” Will looked at his dad, not understanding. 

“We should…” Warren began, unsure. “We should dig out the bullets in his chest. Does anybody have a knife?”

The Commander looked at his protégé, unsure if that suggestion meant Warren knew what his father was and was anticipating his resurrection, or if he was just babbling from shock. It could go either way, actually. 

“Anybody have a knife on them?” Flamebird asked. 

The kids all shook their heads. She knew better than to ask Jetstream or the Commander for one. They did not carry weapons. Flamebrid turned to Taggart and his lieutenant who was now supporting his maimed comrade. 

“How ‘bout you guys?” She demanded. “Any of you rent-a-cops carry a knife?”

The lieutenant reached into Maimed Hand’s pocket and pulled out a small bushcraft knife. He tossed it to Flamebird, who caught it. Then he dragged his comrade away without a word. 

Bending down next to the body, Flamebird unfastened the buckles on the sides of his shirt-vest and lifted the leather out of the way. 

The blade was short and the bullet fragments were deep. Her cuts were sloppy, and she had to dig her hand into the body to pull them out. She probably didn’t even get all the fragments. But she got all that she could find. The biggest pieces, and any others that were close to them and could be pulled out with fingers alone. 

The Commander watched all of this with a kind of morbid fascination he wasn’t used to feeling. He’d seen Barron Battle come back from the dead before and it scared the living daylights out of him. As he watched Battle’s wife cut into him, while the kids looked on in horror, all Steve could think was to wonder how the extra wounds and damage might delay his revival. 

When she was done with her sloppy surgery –and the term ‘surgery’ was applied loosely, Mara Peace never had a day of formal medical training in her life- Flamebird lowered the leather shirt-vest back into place. She sat back on the heels of her hands. Almost like she was waiting. Almost like she expected something to happen. 

Warren crouched next to his mother. Wordless. 

The rest of the kids shifted from foot to foot. Partially still in shock. Partially wondering how much time they should give the family to grieve before reminding them that they had to keep moving. They were on a mission. Find Faultline. Apprehend her for what she did to Maxville. 

Then the body gasped. Gulping in air, after its final breath left it empty. The fabric of Layla’s jacket over the face being sucked in where the mouth gaped open, desperate for what it needed. 

Layla screamed. 

Or was it Will? They were standing very close together. It was a very high pitched scream, but that was no reason to assume it was Layla’s sound. 

“Zombie!” Ethan melted. 

Zach jumped into Magenta’s arms, as if the shapeshifter would protect him. 

“Kill it with fire!” Magenta heard herself scream, still not feeling connected to the rest of her own mind. 

Reaching up a hand, Battle pulled the jacket off his head. The face was pristine. Unmarked. Unblemished. Airbrushed perfect. Like something out of a magazine. His glasses were a little skewed. The frames were bent and didn’t sit right on his face. He took them off and had to bend them back into place. Other than that, Barron Battle looked no different than before he got shot. 

“Alright! Where’s the piece of shit dumbass who decided not to learn anything from the balcony story we all just heard!?” Battle snarled. 

“You’re- you’re alive!” Will could only stare at the older man. This. This was what made Barron Battle so terrifying. It wasn’t that he wasn’t afraid to kill people. It was that no one could kill him in return. He was… unstoppable. That. That was why they gave him such an absurd sounding prison sentence. “Four lives…”

Battle pushed himself back to his feet, then swayed a bit unsteady. Both Flamebird and Warren steadied him. 

“Maybe you should sit down, Dad.” The young pyrokinetic suggested. “I mean, your brain just had to rebuild itself.”

“I’m fine!” Battle snarled, pulling out of his son’s hold. “This isn’t the first time my brains have been splattered all over the place.” He groaned again, one hand going to clutch at his middle mass. “Ugh. Why do I feel like someone was digging around in my chest?”

“We wanted to get the bullet fragments out.” Flamebird explained. Her gloved hand was soaked in blood past the wrist. 

Taking a deep breath, Battle expanded his chest. Held it. Let it out slowly. Stretched his arms over his head. Bent at the waist to one side. Then the other. Stretching his chest and his sides. Feeling for any shrapnel still in his body. “You missed a few bits.” He informed her. Then readjusted the buckles on the sides of his shirt-vest. “But at least you didn’t stab me six more times.”

“What’s that supposed to mean!?” Jetstream demanded. 

Flamebird crossed her arms over her chest and cast a sideways glare at the other woman. “It was very obviously a reference to the fact that you stabbed his chest six times after your husband already impaled him.”

Battle already told them as much earlier. When they first met up. Right before the supervillain agreed to play nice and help them find and apprehend Faultline. But, still… Jetstream was one of their heroes. One of the two most famous supers in the city. One of the two most idolized superheroes in the world. It was still hard to imagine her using anything that could be considered ‘excessive force’, never mind stabbing someone six times after they were already impaled. 

“Mom…?” Will ventured. 

“Why is everyone looking at me?” She demanded. “Flamebird is the one who just maimed a man that was just doing his job!”

“He shot my husband in the head!” Flamebird snarled back. 

“He’s not dead!” Jetstream pointed out, in much the same tone Flamebird used only minutes before. 

“He was for a few minutes.” The other woman reminded her. 

Warren raised his hand, as if they were in school. “So, if ‘just doing his job’ is license to give a guy a free pass, does that mean my dad can be acquitted and his conviction overturned?”

“That-!” Jetstream cut herself off, realizing the flaws in her own arguments before they were even spoken. 

The Strongholds and the Battle-Peaces stood, glaring at one another for a few moments. Steve, wanting to back up his wife. But also wanting to give his protégé –Warren- a pat on the head being a critical thinker and pointing out the flaw in the older and more seasoned hero’s argument. Mara and Josie never liked each other. They never really got to know each other, they did not move in the same circles –either super or social. But from what they knew of each other’s reputations and what they knew of each other, they did not like each other and the distaste was mutual. Of course, Steve and Battle hated each other since high school. It was a classic family feud! (Complete with their children forming a star-crossed friendship.) 

Magenta cleared her throat. “Ahm. Not that watching this little novella play out isn’t absurdly entertaining…” she seemed to have gotten over her shock of watching a man get his brains blown out in front of her. Her sarcasm and sass was working again. “…but we all came here to find an earthquake causing supervillain. Maybe we should get back on that.”

Ethan and Zach agreed with her. 

Will and Warren were great and all. Powerful supers and fairly decent friends. But, their parents sure knew how to steal a spotlight and divert focus. 

All three heroes –Commander, Jetstream, and Flamebird- coughed, or cleared their throats. All three being put in their place by a young hero-still-in-training not even out of school yet. They had lost focus and let their personal prejudices for each other get in the way of what was important. 

Flamebird locked eyes with her own reflection in Taggart’s shades. “Are you gonna let us go? Or do I have to take more hands?”

Layla stared at her mentor in horror. To lash out in the heat of the moment right after witnessing your lover shot and killed –however temporarily- was one thing. But to calmly, and knowingly threaten further abuse from her superpowers was another thing entirely. Layla couldn’t believe that it was the same woman who cared about preventing mud slides and repairing sidewalks so kids didn’t get hurt on their skate boards that made the threat. Was this the kind of hero that fell in love with a supervillain? Was Mr. Batle a bad influence on her? Was this what Warren meant when he asked Layla to tell him if his mom ‘got mean’?

“I am so attracted to you right now.” Battle muttered.

“Down, Bambi. Later.” Mara muttered back. To Taggart she demanded, “Well?”

The security chief held her gaze for a moment longer. He glanced to the Commander and Jetstream. Then to Battle. It was Battle that he was actually afraid of. Supervillain weren’t shy about killing and Battle couldn’t be killed. That, and his super-hot wife –literally hot too, she was Flamebird- wasn’t shy about preforming a few spontaneous and traumatic amputations. 

He folded. Like a cheap suit. “They renovated since you went to prison. Now you need an access key to get into the basement.” He re-holstered his gun, pulling a plastic key-card out of his blazer instead. “Swipe this and the four digit code is 1-2-3-4, the HOA wanted to keep it simple.” Battle opened his mouth to ask a question. “And yes-“ Taggart cut him off “-the entrance to the catacombs is still in the back of the electrical room.”

“Maxville doesn’t have catacombs!” The Commander sounded more surprised than argumentative. 

Both Battle and Flamebird just frowned at him. 

“See, this is what happens when you spend all your time flying in the sunlight, and never get down and hit the streets.” Battle informed him. “Do the dirty, gritty hero work that’s not so photogenic and appealing.”

“Oh, but you do?” Steve snapped back. Battle was a villain. What did he know about hero work! 

“Not first hand, no.” Admitted the other man. He took Flamebird’s ungloved hand in his and gave it a light little kiss. “But this one’s come home more than once smelling of sewers –or worse- and ranted to me about Triad hitmen, or mafia arsonists. Or how criminals would use the catacombs under the city to move around unnoticed.”

Steve just continued to glare at Battle. As if refusing to admit that, to spite the fact that he was a villain, might actually know a thing or two about heroes and their work. He bit the inside of his cheek. Swallowed whatever comment he was going to say. And decided to stay on point. “Let’s just get going.”

Battle lead the group through the lobby to the stairs the descended into the parking garage and basement levels. The electrical room was on the lowest level and Battle walked straight to the back of the room and pulled what turned out to be a false electrical panel out of the way. 

Behind it was a hole in the wall that looked like it had originally been blasted out from the inside. But instead of sealing the gap back up, the Home Owners of the Spear had added scaffolding to keep the entrance open, and a series of small security lasers to keep anything from the catacombs from coming up through the entrance. They ran off their own power source and were not affected by the blackout. Battle swiped Taggart’s key-card again and entered the access code. 

Then they were in the catacombs.


	15. A Lesson in Steps

It was dark underground. Zach walked close to the head of the line, glowing to illuminate the passage ahead of him, with Warren in the middle of the line, holding up one burning hand to keep the team lit. They weren’t used to working in such a large group. The six of them. Plus four parents. Ten people was way too many for a superhero team. 

Battle called these tunnels ‘catacombs’. Not the disused or outdated sewer tunnels that were never filled in. Not old service tunnels that were left unmaintained, dry, and musty. Not even just the unclear and ambiguous ‘secret tunnels’. No. He called them catacombs, and that put the Commander on edge. He didn’t even know these tunnels under Maxville existed, but Barron did. What else did Battle know about these long dark corridors that he and Josie didn’t know?

“I don’t like this.” Josie slid next to her husband to hiss in his ear. “We’re trapped in close quarters where my powers are less useful, underground where your strength can become a liability. How do you know this isn’t some elaborate trap by Barron to kill you and take his revenge?”

Steve turned his head to peer over the column of children at Barron Battle walking next to his wife near the back of the procession. The passage was just big enough for the group to walk double-file. Battle and Mara were shoulder to shoulder. If it weren’t for the fact that they were on a mission and had to keep their eyes open and their hands free, thy might have been holding hands. A loving couple on a romantic stroll. He did not look like a man in the middle of executing a needlessly complicated and ridiculously circuitous plan for revenge. He looked like a guy trying to enjoy time with a woman he hadn’t seen in ten years, while also trying not to let himself get distracted. 

“I don’t think so…” Steve shook his head. “Barron’s always been a pretty straight forward kinda guy. He wouldn’t set a trap and lure me anywhere. He’d just walk right up and punch me in the face in broad daylight.”

Josie pursed her lips. She was not reassured that there was no danger at their backs. But Steve did have a point. As much as Barron hated him –hated them both- he was a creature of habits and patterns. He did not orchestrate elaborate plans, he confronted his problems head-on. He was a man of his word, while he did vow revenge on Steve, he also promised to play nice and help until he decided Warren and Mara were no longer in danger from Faultline. For the moment, at least, Barron Battle was not a threat. 

“What about Flamebird?” She asked instead. Mara Peace was not as well known, and far less understood. “You saw how she maimed that man. It was so quick! No hesitation. And ruthless! She just blew his hand off! I didn’t even see her use any fire. And it was done defending a villain. How do we know she’s not turned and become a villain herself? How do we know that villain-fuc-uh villain-lover isn’t gonna betray us?”

“Hey!” Battle shouted from the back of the line. “You don’t whisper as quietly as you think you do!”

Mortified, Josie turned her head to look down the two lines of their group. Zach with his glow was in front of them, with Magenta as his side. But behind them were Will and Ethan, and Warren and Layla, all looking anywhere but at the two most famous and decorated heroes in the city. Layla seemed especially uncomfortable since it was her own mentor Josie had just called a ruthless villain-fucker. 

Behind the children, Battle was glaring at Steve and Josie as if he was reconsidering his promise to play nice. 

“If you’ve got something to say,” continued Battle, “say it to us directly! Don’t ‘whisper’ loudly and spread doubt in the team!”

“What would you know about working on a team?” Steve shot back, defending Josie by going on the offence with Battle. 

“I have worked plenty of jobs where I’ve had to cooperate with other hired mercenaries.” Battle informed him. “It’s not my preferred job, but I know how to work with-“

Mara took his hand in hers, distracting him and, also silencing him. “Leave it alone.” She whispered at a volume that only he could hear. She, at least, knew how to whisper for real. “People have said worse about me since you’ve been gone.”

With that it seemed like the matter was dropped. The Strongholds were confronted, Battle said his peace, and Mara pacified him. It was settled. Over. 

The party marched on through the tunnels. Too wide to be disused sewers. Too narrow to be abandoned subway tunnels. The architecture looked old. Like, from when the city was first founded. 

Still holding Battle’s hand, Mara slowed their pace. They were already at the back of the group. No one noticed them falling just a few extra steps behind. Not far. Still sticking close to the group. Still able to see Warren’s back walking next to Layla. Just a few extra steps back so that no one could overhear hushed whispers. 

“See what I mean?” Mara hissed at her husband. “They don’t care about us. They don’t trust me, and they won’t trust Warren. He doesn’t have a future with these people.”

She wanted to leave. She wanted to run. Take her family and get out. Start over somewhere else with new identities and no established reputations. 

Lifting his eyes, Battle looked at Warren. The younger man’s back was to them, he hadn’t overheard what she said. He had no idea of the conversation his parents were having. But Battle already knew what his son’s answer would be. The subject was already brought up at Divide by the Broker. Battle didn’t even have to ask. He saw it in Warren’s eyes then and he saw it in the set of his shoulders now. In the measure of his step. In how close he stayed to Layla and the Stronghold boy as they walked. He wouldn’t go. He wouldn’t come with them. He would not leave his friends. 

To spite what Mara said, Warren actually did have a future in Maxville. A future he wanted, and would not throw away for his parents who were old, had already had their shot at a future, had already made their decisions. Warren wouldn’t run with them. 

And if they did run, neither of them would ever see their son again. Warren would become a hero. Maybe not a famous or as loved as the Commander, but still a hero. They would be fugitives. Battle, an escaped convict on the run. Mara, his accomplice and possible partner in future crimes. If they ever crossed paths with Warren he would be forced to arrest them. They could never put him in that position. If they ran, neither of them would ever see their son again. 

So then, what option were they left with…?

Play nice with the heroes. Help save the city. Take down Faultline. Don’t stab Steve in the chest when it was over. Surrender himself back to law enforcement and ask for leniency when they sent him back to Max Pen. Just the idea left a bad taste in Battle’s mouth. He had never been good at swallowing his pride. 

But if one option meant never seeing his son again, and another option meant getting at least supervised visits with Warren… 

No one ever choked swallowing their pride. 

Battle shook his head. “We’ll figure something out.” He told his wife diplomatically. “At the very least Warren will- Wah!”

His statement was cut off abruptly when the ground under Battle’s feet suddenly gave way and he went plummeting into a lower tunnel below. 

The whole group froze. Everyone spinning around on their heels. The nine of them surrounding the new hole in the ground as best they could in the narrow space. Zach’s soft glow couldn’t quite reach far enough down to illuminate Battle. No one could see him. 

“Dad!” Warren was closest to the edge. 

“Barron?” Mara called down the hole.

“Mr. Battle?” Layla ventured. 

“Ugh… ow…” But they could hear him. 

Putting his hands together, Warren made a ball of fire. Larger than his usual ones that he threw at opponents. When it was big enough, Warren dropped the fire ball down into the hole. 

There was Barron Battle, laying on a pile of what looked like strange round rocks, with a series of metal spikes through his shoulder, side, and legs. 

“You okay down there, Dad?” Warren asked. He never knew how to gauge how injured his father was. Warren had seen him get hit by a car, be thrown onto the windshield, and roll off the hood, then get back up again and deliver a lecture on not running into the street to get a ball. He’d also seen his father cut himself with a kitchen knife and shout and snarl like it was the worst thing to ever happen to him. The levels of bad when it came to Dad’s injuries were on a sliding scale. 

“I fell on a pike.” He groaned. Battle tried to push himself up into a sitting position. The old and probably rusted spikes dragging against flesh and bone as he pulled himself off the one in his shoulder and his side. Then he noted the ones through his legs. “Ugh. Several pikes.”

“Hang on.” Mara called. “I’ll come get you.”

She floated down the hole into the lower passage. Setting her weight down on the strange round rocks they cracked and crumbled under her feet. Mara looked down in horror at what she was actually standing on. 

“Are those skulls!?” Steve asked, staring down at them. It was a little hard to tell. Warren’s fireball threw everything into odd shadows. 

Battle just looked up at him as if he were the dumbest person on the Earth. “What do you think the word ‘catacombs’ means?”

“I just-“ Steve just assumed Battle meant ‘big old tunnels’ when he said ‘catacombs’. Surly no one in Maxville had ever actually used these old tunnels as tombs or burial sites. Right? This was America! People didn’t do that here! That was more of a medieval European thing. Rome and Paris had catacombs. Maxville should not. Except that Battle was currently laying on a pile of what looked like old, dry, and crumbling human skulls. “I didn’t think you actually meant dead things.”

Battle rolled his eyes and picked up one of the lesser-damaged skulls. “Oh, I’m sorry. Do dead things make you uncomfortable?” Getting his hand in the skull, Battle pantomimed it blowing a raspberry up at the Commander, poking one of his fingers between its teeth in place of a tongue. 

“Gawd, what is wrong with you?” Steve wrinkled his nose in disgust. 

“gAwD, wHaT iS wRoNg WiTh YoU?” Battle pantomimed the skull mocking the Commander. 

“Show some respect for the dead!” Josie snapped at him, leaning over the hole to fix her former classmate with a reproving glare. 

Battle just looked back up at her. Matching her glare with a level and measured stare of his own. “Josie, I promise you, these are not ‘the dead’ they’re just empty frames the dead leave behind.”

She blinked. Taken aback. Josie had forgotten that –of all the people on Earth- she was talking to the one person who actually knew what happened to a person after they die. Where they go. If they even go anywhere at all. If there is anything… after. She stared at Battle, eyes wide. Almost as if seeing him for the first time. As if realizing that he was different from other supers in a way she couldn’t fully understand. 

An oddly uncomfortable silence settled over the adults. 

“We should keep moving.” Flamebird finally said, clearing her throat loudly. 

She helped Battle pull himself up off the pikes he was impaled on. The old –almost ancient- and rusting metal sliding through flesh making an odd sound. As grating on the nerves as nails on chalk board, but softer and wetter. More of the pile of skulls chipped and crumbled under them as they moved. 

Back on his feet, wounds already healing, Mara flew her husband back up out of the hole.

“Well, that was fun.” Battle stretched as best he could in the narrow passage. “I’m hungry.” 

“How can you think of food after climbing off a mountain of dead bodies?” The disgust in Steve’s voice was so thick it was a wonder he managed to make words at all. 

“Healing and coming back from the dead happens to burn a lot of calories.” Battle informed him snubly. “Venison. I want venison.”

Not many deer or artisan butchers down in the catacombs under the city. Not that anything a butcher shop offered would be appetizing with the power still out. After almost twenty hours without refrigeration meat tends to lose freshness. Then again, knowing Battle, he’d probably bite into rotten meat and rip a piece off slowly while making eye-contact for no other reason than he knew it would make Steve uncomfortable. Even back in school, Barron Battle never passed up an opportunity to make Steve Stronghold uncomfortable. 

“Let’s just go.” Steve said instead, turning to keep moving down the passage. He had no idea where they were actually going. He’d never been in the catacombs before. He didn’t even know Maxville had catacombs! And he sure as heck didn’t know where in this labyrinth of tunnels Faultline would be hiding. He just didn’t want to give Barron any more attention.

Maybe someone who knew the catacombs better should have been in the lead. Or at the very least, someone who knew they existed in the first place. 

All too soon they came to a fork in the passage and the Commander froze, not knowing which way to go.

He heard a snort behind him and turned to see Battle pushing his way through the group to the head of the column. 

“So used to being the leader that you forgot you don’t even know where you’re leading us to.” Battle shoved Steve to the side and stood between the two passages. 

“Oh, but you know.” If the situation weren’t so dire Steve might have rolled his eyes. Instead, he just glared at the other man. 

“No.” Battle admitted. Matter-of-factly, almost as if it didn’t matter that no one in their group actually knew where they were going. Then he smiled. “But I do know how to hunt. That’s something they didn’t teach at How-To-Be-A-Giant-Tool High.”

“You went to the same school, Mr. Battle.” Will reminded the older man as if he were helping. Maybe he even thought he was helping. Diffusing a confrontation between his dad and his best friend’s dad before either man had the chance to become angry or frustrated. Will liked to be an arbiter of peace. The problem was, he didn’t always know how to do it, like when he tried to talk Warren down in the lunch room and got fireballs thrown at his face instead. 

“Did Paladin teach you?” Steve asked. Politely. As if he were legitimately interested. As if he honestly wanted to know. Who taught Barron Battle how to hunt if it wasn’t something that was taught at Sky High. Someone named ‘Paladin’? Who was Paladin? Another villain? Strange name for a villain, considering that a paladin was supposed to be a knight that was particularly renowned for chivalry and heroism. 

Battle rounded on the Commander. Almost as if Steve had personally insulted him. He grabbed a fist full of the other man’s brightly colored costume, pulling him close into his personal space. So that Steve could feel him spit as he snarled. “Don’t say his name! Nobody gets to say his name. Nobody gets to remember him. He doesn’t get to be remembered. Do you understand?”

A smarter man might have noted that was an unusually strong reaction to just hearing an old mentor’s name. A smarter man might have realized that this was not the time to press further questions, and let the subject drop. Keep focus on the matter at hand. Instead, Steve asked, “Why?”

For half a second it looked like Battle might break his promise to ‘play nice’ and not stab the Commander until Warren was safe. From out of nowhere the knife Flamebird used to dig the bullet fragments out of his chest appeared in his hand. 

But then Mara was at her husband’s side. One hand on his shoulder, the other wrapped around the wrist that was holding the knife. “Not right now.” She whispered. So gently Steve almost didn’t hear her. “Not in front of Warren.”

Battle glanced at his wife, as if asking an unvoiced question. She said ‘not right now’, not ‘don’t’. Did that mean she wasn’t opposed to killing the Commander later? She already said multiple times that the Commander didn’t care about them. Did that mean that she didn’t care if he died? Just, not right in front of their son. 

Battle turned his head to look over the children. It was hard to read the boy’s expression under the mask, but Steve was Warren’s mentor. Before that, he was his best friend’s father. Whether they were close or not, the boy had to harbor some kind of feeling for the older man –no matter how conflicted it was. Battle couldn’t kill Steve in front of Warren. 

Suppressing a growl of frustration, Battle handed the knife back to his wife. 

“And the next time you pick-pocket my belt, can you at least have the decency to grope my ass a little?” She added in a light, almost joking tone to diffuse the tension. 

It did not succeed in diffusing tension. It just made everyone one else feel awkward and uncomfortable. Warren chief among them. 

Clearing his throat, Battle beckoned to Zach. “Hey, Glowstick, c’mere. I need some light.”

Startled to be singled out by Barron Battle, Zach sputtered for a moment, unsure. He glanced to Warren as if asking if it was safe. ‘You’re dad’s not gonna kill me, right?’ But he didn’t actually say anything out loud. Instead, he offered a grim not and waded through their group slowly, like a man heading to his own execution. “How can I help, Mr. Battle?”

“Just stand there and do what you’re already doing.” Battle commanded. More snapped, really. He seemed to have run out of patience thanks to the Commander, and was not in the mood to be gentle or indulgent with children that were not his own. 

Kneeling down, Battle studied the ground between the two passages. 

With seemingly no regard for his own personal safety, Steve knelt next to him. “So, what are we looking at?”

Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Battle shot the other man a dirty look. “’We’ aren’t looking at anything. I am looking for tracks or ground disturbances.”

“Like what?” Steve pressed. At this point it was actually a little difficult to tell if he were actually curious and eager to learn. Or if he was skeptical of Battle’s aptitude and trying to catch him in a lie.

Battle only rolled his eyes. 

“Like that.” He pointed to a series of lines and scrapes in the dust. “Tracks.”

“That could have just been rats.” That was definitely skepticism in the Commander’s voice. He did doubt Battle’s aptitude and was trying to catch him in a lie. 

“No. That’s rats.” Battle pointed to an entirely different set of scuffs in the dust. Smaller. Much, much smaller. With very clear tiny paw or claw marks that looked like rodent feet. Unmistakably rat tracks. 

Was this what watching a pissing contest was like?

Battle pointed back at the first series of marks. “These are human feet. Five, maybe six people. See how these here are narrower. Someone who’s either skinny or slight of build. And these, here, are dipper, but also more kicked up and disturbed, like there was extra air pressure. Either a speedster, or someone very heavy.” A pause. “Or both, I guess. Never met a heavy speedster before. But then, there’s a first for everything.”

Steve made a sour face. 

The rest of the kids looked on impressed. 

Barron Battle was describing one of the kids from Royal Pain’s attack at prom. The overweight speedster whom was un-ironically named Speed. He was sent to Max Pen, same as the rest of the seniors Royal Pain manipulated into joining her, and he was one on the list of escapees. Along with Penny Lent, and Lash Sandvig. Battle also said one of the tracks belonged to someone skinny or slight of build. That description could fit Lash. He and Speed were near-inseparable. Never seen apart. Could they be helping Faultline now?

Faultline was supposed to have been friends with Sue Tenny back in school. Sue Tenny was Gwen Grayson, Royal Pain, the ringleader of the gang Speed and Lash belonged to. Was Royal Pain helping out her old gal pal from school? Did she rope her gang into doing the same? Could they expect the multiple forms of Penny Lent as well? Battle did say at least five people. Faultline, Royal Pain, Speed, and Lash were only four. 

“So, it’s a villain team-up.” Flamebird crossed her arms over her chest. “Good thing we brought a team of our own.”

The Commander stood, looking from Flamebird decked out in all her bright colors, to Battle kneeling in the dirt clad in all black. And Steve realized, he wasn’t actually sure which team they were on. Hero or villain. 

Steve grabbed Battle by the shoulder and dragged him back to his feet. He pressed the other man against the nearest wall. Lifted him off his feet, and pressed him against the nearest wall, actually. “Sue and Terra were your friends back his high school.”

“Yeah.” Battle confirmed, un-phased. “And you weren’t. What’s your point?”

“I take you in there with us, can I trust you to have my back?” Steve pressed, leaning in close. Invading Battle’s personal space. As close as Battle had gotten during their initial team-up agreement. So close, their noses were almost touching. So close, they could feel each other’s breath on their faces. 

“No.” Battle was completely honest. He would not have Steve’s back. He had no motivation to protect the other man. They were not friends. They weren’t even really allies in the strictest sense of the word. This team-up was a one-time thing and it wasn’t even so much of a team-up as it was a ‘truce’ of sorts. Putting their animosity and hostility aside momentarily for a common goal. But just because they had a common goal did not mean they had to go out of their way to protect each other. Battle would not protect the Commander. Peering over the other man’s shoulder, Battle nodded to Warren. “But you can trust me to have his back.”

Turning his head, Steve followed Battle’s eyes to see where he was looking. 

His son. 

He might not be able to trust the supervillain not to betray him, but he could trust him not to betray his own child. As long as Warren was on the hero team, Barron Battle was on the hero team. It was the best assurance Steve was going to get. 

“So… you gonna let me down off this wall, or did you wanna make out a little bit?” Battle mocked. “As I recall, you did go through a phase in senior year.”

Steve never dropped anyone as fast as he let go of and dropped Barron Battle in that moment. 

He turned, shoulders back, spine straight. The posture of a leader addressing his subordinates. A Commander. “Okay. We have an idea of what we’re dealing with. You’ve all faced Royal Pain and her minions before. You know what to exp-“

“I’ve never fought Royal Pain or her minions before.” Flamebird cut the Commander off. Completely derailing what he probably planned to be a rousing and inspirational speech. 

“What?” Steve just looked at her, not sure what to say. 

“You said we’ve all faced Royal Pain before.” Mara explained. “But I haven’t.”

“Okay, but everyone else has-“ Steve tried to regain some control over the group. 

“To be fair,” Battle said behind him, still leaning against the wall. “I never actually fought Sue either. She dropped out of school and disappeared long before I found my path. And I’m pretty sure her minions were still just children when I went to jail. So I never fought them either.”

“Okay, but most of us-“

“Come to think of it,” now it was Warren who was interrupting, “you and Jetstream didn’t fight Gwen or her minions at prom. You were, like, the first ones turned into babies. You didn’t even get a hit in.”

The rest of the kids seemed to find that amusing for some reason. Magenta was the only one to snort out loud. Finding it funny how easily the great and powerful Commander and Jetstream were caught off guard and defeated by the supervillain. Ethan and Zach were more polite. Just hiding silent smiles behind their hands, or looking away. 

At least Layla didn’t seem to think it was funny. 

What was really disappointing was that Will did not rise to his parents’ defense. 

“Jetstream and I fought Royal Pain before!” Steve reminded the younger man, annoyed that his own protégé was the one questioning him now. He glanced behind him at Battle who only smirked. It was because his villain father was her that Warren was acting this way. Before the break-out, Warren was an acceptably well-behaved and respectful intern –if a little moody and prone to anger. 

“But not her minions.” Battle concluded. 

Battle was very clearly the bad influence here. 

“What Steve is trying to say,” Josie rose to her husband’s defense, “is that we’re not going in blind. The majority of us know what to expect and those that haven’t gone up against these guys before can follow the others’ leads.”

Battle clapped his hands. As if that were the most inspirational speech he’d ever heard. “Whoo! Well said, fearless leader!” He was, of course, mocking her. “Are we ready to go now?”

“So impatient.” Josie shot him an acid glare. “Classic supervillain.”

Battle opened his mouth to snap out a come-back. 

But Mara took his hand and pulled him down the passage. “Yeah. We’re ready to go.”

He didn’t get the chance to point out that Sue Tenny waited in the guise of Gwen Grayson for eighteen years to take her revenge. He stewed in a cell for ten for a chance to see his family again and maybe get a shot at revenge. Supervillains were very, very patient. It was the heroes that hated waiting and acted on impulse.


	16. Best Laid Plans

Wading his way through the group in the narrow passage, Battle slid up next to Warren. “I didn’t get a chance to say it earlier,” he whispered, “but I like the costume.”

Warren ran a black gloved hand, over the black kevlar plates, on his black spandex costume. “Mom thinks I should wear more color. People are already mistaking me for a villain and I haven’t even finished my internship.”

“So what if you’re mistaken for a villain?” Battle scoffed. “In case you haven’t noticed, heroes aren’t such great people.”

The tone of his voice when he said that made Warren wonder if he were actually talking about the heroes in who’s company they were with, or another hero. Warren decided to ignore the tone. “Victims and witnesses need to be able to trust me. They’re not gonna trust me if they think I’m a villain.”

Battle scoffed again. “I actually am a villain and the first time I met your mother, not only did she trust me right away, but she made me take her out on a date. Clearly, wearing all black is not the issue here.” A pause. “What’s your comportment like?”

“My what now?” Behind the whited-out eye-sockets of his mask, Warren blinked. 

“Your comportment. How you comport yourself.” Battle repeated. “How you act and behave. How you present yourself to others.”

Near the front of the column Steve gave a snort of derision. “Look at Barron over there, throwing out the big SAT words!”

“Don’t get an attitude just because your Neanderthal brain doesn’t understand big words!” Battle snapped back at him. 

In one collective, almost perfectly synchronized motion, the group face palmed. It had been this way for almost the whole journey through the catacombs. The Commander would try talking to one member of the group or another. Battle would make an unsolicited comment or insert himself into the conversation. The two men would begin to squabble as if they were children. Battle would try talking to his wife, or his son whom he hadn’t seen in ten years. Steve would make some snarky remark or insert himself in the conversation. The two men would begin to squabble as if they were children. It was impossible to go ten steps anymore without the two men baiting or inciting each other. 

It was almost like they wanted to fight, or something. 

“Dad… please…” Both Warren and Will groaned at the exact same time. In perfect unison. In the exact same octave and tone. As if they had rehearsed their pleas for peace. 

Battle turned to Warren, looking almost betrayed. “I’m not the one who’s trying to get all up in other people’s business.”

“You yelled at the Commander ten minutes ago when he asked Stronghold if he would add a cape to his costume for when they debut the Stronghold Three.” Warren pointed out. 

“Capes are dumb!” Battle snapped, as if that were the relevant detail to take away. “And only an idiot would use their real name when debuting as a superhero! ‘Stronghold Three’… they might as well just paint big fat targets on all their civilian clothes!”

“Oh, this from the guy who never even took a villain name!” The Commander shot back, shouting over Warren’s head as if the younger man weren’t even there. “When you do your villain-jobs using your real name, you might as well have painted targets on Warren and Mara!”

“I was an assassin, you idiot!” Battle reminded him. “If you’re the type of assassin where everyone knows you’re name then you’re not a very good one. And I was a great assassin! You don’t even know half the jobs I pulled! And you never will! That’s how good I am!”

“Was.” Warren corrected. 

“What?” Battle blinked at his son, not understanding. 

“Past-tense.” The younger man explained. “That’s how good you were. You did get caught, Dad. That’s, like, the opposite of success.” 

Steve gave a snort of laughter. “Ha! See, Barron, even your own son thinks you suck!”

“Nobody asked you!” Battle snarled, practically spitting from anger. 

While at the exact same time, Warren tried to reassure his father, “That’s not what I said.”

“Where do you get off!?” Battle continued to spit. “Trying to turn my son against me!”

“Trust me, Barron, I don’t need to do anything to turn your son against you.” Steve informed him. “You do that just fine on your own.”

“Oh my gawd!” Warren placed his face in his hands. “Dad, that’s not even sorta what’s happening here.”

But Battle was no longer listening to the younger man. His attention was focused on the Commander. It seemed they had reached the just wanting to fight segment of this latest episode. Everyone else in the group was getting pretty tired of these confrontations by this point. The concern they felt earlier was starting to give way to simple exasperation. The Commander wasn’t going to re-arrest Battle in the middle of a labyrinthine tunnel system he wasn’t sure how to get out when Battle was supposed to be helping him apprehend a more pressing villain. Battle wasn’t going to stab and kill the Commander while his son was watching, not when he needed to Commander’s strength to help him take down another super that was a bigger threat to his family. 

Maybe after Faultline was dealt with. But for the moment, all they were doing was circling each other and growling. Maybe lashing out to swat at one another when they grated on each others nerves. But never any serious attacks. 

They were like cats being forced to share a space. Hissing and spitting, but not a significant threat to one another. 

“How dare you!” Battle pushed past Warren to get back in Steve’s face. Grabbing a fist full of the other man’s brightly colored costume. 

Warren and Will exchanged an exhausted look. It was not the first exhausted look they shared in the past hour and the had an apprehensive feeling that it would not be their last. They had come to the segment of the episode where the star-crossed friends had to pull their feuding fathers apart. Both boys moved to each grab their respective parent. 

Neither of them got to lay hands on either of the dads, however. 

There was a rush of air and something large and heavy barreled into Will. He was thrown against a wall, cracking the stone. Whatever large and heavy thing knocked over Will also flipped the Commander’s cape over his head. The two heavy hitters were momentarily disoriented.

“’Sup, losers.” The rush of air and blur in the dark paused momentarily. Holding still just long enough for them to recognize it as Speed, the thick built speedster from Royal Pain’s crew. 

Warren reacted instantly, lighting his arms on fire. Ready for a fight. 

Zach glowed brighter to illuminate the rest of the hallway. Ethan melted into a puddle to make the passage slick and cut down on Speed’s traction. Layla placed her hand to a wall, ready to summon a tangle of roots to trip Speed the next time he tried to make a run for it. 

Flamebird crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh, look at that. A fat speedster. Just like my husband said.”

“I’m not fat! It’s a thyroid condition!” Speed snarled. Then paused, actually noting who had spoken. He turned to face Warren, laughing. “Dude. Did you bring your mom? Aw… Does the widdle angry fire baby need his mommy?”

“Stronghold’s mother is here too.” He pointed at Jetstream. “Why don’t you try mocking him?”

Speed just scoffed, unimpressed. “Stronghold’s always been a momma’s boy.” 

“I am not!” Will snapped. “How did you even find us? These tunnels are a giant maze! And it’s dark!”

“Pff, please.” Speed snorted. “With all the noise these two were making. How could I not find you? You old folks need to learn to use your inside voices, Commander and-“ he paused, looking Barron Battle up and down, trying to figure out who he was, dressing all in black leather and buckles. “Captain… Bondage…?”

Warren groaned, Mara snorted, Battle looked down at his costume. It was not the first time someone made that kind of assumption about him based off his costume. 

“Okay, I don’t know who the old guy in the fetish gear is.” Speed had to admit. 

Battle was getting real tired of people calling him ‘old’. He was the same age as the Commander. He was forty-eight years old. Not even fifty yet! He was not old! Battle turned to Warren. “I can kill this one, right?”

“Whoa! Look out! Captain Bondage thinks he’s an edgy badass over here.” Speed did not appear the least bit threatened by the old guy in the black leather and buckles fetish gear. He was traveling in the company of Stronghold, Peace, and their dorky loser sidekicks. How bad could he be? Really. 

Battle took one step towards the speedster. 

But he moved too fast. In less than the blink of an eye was standing behind Flamebird. He made a point of looking her up and down, making sure Warren knew exactly what he was looking at. “Though, I gotta say, your mom’s kinda nice in a Stacy’s Mom sorta way. If you know what I mean.”

Flamebird practically leapt away from the speedster. Hovering above the group, as high as a low ceiling of the passage would let her. Keeping out of reach of the earth-bound speedster. 

“Gross.” Layla commented. She summoned a tangle of roots to twist around Speed’s feet. 

But he moved too fast again. Pushing his way back through the group. Shoving the Commander –who was still wrestling with his own cape thrown over his head- into Will, still leaning against the cracked wall. When one super-strong hero collided with the other, the wall broke and they both tumbled into a side chamber. 

Both men fell in a heap of bodies with a loud ‘oof’ in stereo. But they were not the only bodies in the pile. Skeletons, or pieces of skeletons, in colonial clothing clattered on top of them. Shaken loose from their resting places by the force of the Strongholds bursting through their tomb wall. 

“Well, I gotta jet.” Speed announced, as if he were just calling it a night after hanging out like old pals. “Thanks for the advanced warning.”

And in another rush of air, the speedster was gone. 

Battle brushed a loose strand of curly hair back behind his ear. “Great job, Steve. Now, thanks to you they know we’re coming.”

“Me!” The Commander finally succeeded in getting his cape off his face. 

Then immediately wished he hadn’t as he found the empty eye-sockets of a skull staring at him with its death grin. He struggled to his feet, flapping his arms furiously and shaking his body violently to get all the bones off him. One particularly stubborn hand was hooked on his shoulder and would not let go. Dead things did, indeed, make the Commander uncomfortable. 

Finally, he ripped the bony hand off himself and threw it on the ground. Then glared at Battle. “You were yelling to! How do we know it wasn’t you who lead him to us!”

“Are you for real right now?” Warren asked. He pushed past his father to offer Will a hand up. The younger man was almost as uncomfortable around dead things as his father was and was anxious to get out from under the pile of bones. 

“I don’t want to sound rude, Mr. Battle, Dad.” Will began, grateful for the hand up. He brushed himself off and stood unnecessarily close to Warren as he spoke to the other man’s supervillain father and his own. “But your petty arguing with each other was what tipped Speed off that we were here, and now you wanna keep doing it?”

“Barron, maybe save your hostility for the villains who now know we’re coming.” Suggested Flamebird. She was still hovering above the rest of the group. 

He rolled his eyes. As if they were just arguing over who should do the dishes after dinner. “Fi~ine.” 

Stepping into the open tomb, Battle toed at the pieces of colonial bodies. It wasn’t just bones and old clothes. There were mess kits, and powered horns, and muskets. A militia of some kind? Bending down, Battle pulled a thin blade, a little longer than the average hunting knife. 

“Are you seriously looting a tomb right now?” Demanded the Commander. 

“Not ‘looting’ just borrowing.” Battle insisted. “I’ll leave them here in the catacombs. Just, maybe not in this exact crypt.” When the group just continued to stare at him, Battle crossed his arms over his chest. “Look, my super power’s a passive power, okay. I can’t crush coal into diamonds, or shoot fire out of my hands, or summon a fucking forest. I just heal fast.” Another pause. “And don’t die. If you want me to be useful in a fight, I’m gonna need a weapon. And I like bayonets. They’re versatile.”

Glancing around the tomb, the Commander spotted a skeleton in a uniform. Then, in a condemning tone said, “Hey, this one’s got a sword. You wanna steal his sword too?”

Battle wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Don’t be dumb. Swords are long. Bad choice in close quarters like this.” He pulled a second bayonet off the musket of another skeleton. “Besides, with these I can duel wield.”

He twirled the blades in his hands for show. And accidentally cut both his hands.

Steve snorted. “You just cut yourself.”

The wounds were already healing. But that didn’t stop Battle from getting defensive. “Bayonets don’t have hilts.” He slid them into his belt. 

There was a beat of silence while everyone waited to either the Commander to make some remark about Battle choosing weapons that don’t have a hilt, or grip, or anything to protect their wielder’s hands. Or for Battle to follow up his statement with some kind of dig at the Commander for not knowing that because he never studied weapons, he never studied anything that required even the least bit of skill. His only skill was punching things. 

When neither man baited the other, the group breathed a collective sigh. 

For now, it seemed, the Commander and Barron Battle were putting their petty squabbled aside. 

“The fat speedster went that way.” Battle pointed. “These catacombs are a labyrinth, so they’ll be expecting up to come from the same direction. Finding another would risk us getting lost.”

“Dad, you used to say that anything said before a ‘but’ was meaningless.” Warren pointed out, sensing a ‘but’ was coming. 

“However,” continued Battle, that was the same as a ‘but’, “as we’ve just seen, walls don’t mean much to the Commander and Steve Jr. over here.”

“My name is Will.” Will reminded the older man. 

“Hush, Steve Jr., nobody’s talking to you.” Battle shushed him as if the younger man were nothing more than a yappy dog. “Instead of taking the existing passage, we’ll just have Steve and baby-Steve make us our own.”

“And risk bringing this place down on our heads!” Josie was horrified. “We don’t know if any of those walls are weight bearing. There’s no point in taking Faultline by surprise if we’re all buried alive!” She turned to Steve, grabbing her husband’s arm. “I told you he had some sort of plan to betray and kill us!”

The Commander did look suspicious. Battle wasn’t usually the type to go for absurdly complicated and unnecessarily elaborate plots. But then, Faultline was one of his friends from school. And Royal Pain’s minions were here, Sue was Barron’s best friend from school. It was not an absurd assumption that they were all in league together. After all, it was Faultline’s quake that broke him out of prison in the first place. 

Battle just crossed his arms over his chest. More annoyed than anything else. 

“Um… wouldn’t burring us alive also kill Warren and Ms. Peace?” Ethan reminded everyone. “I’m having a little trouble understanding the motivation if that were Mr. Battle’s plan.”

Battle smirked. He really liked that kid. He was the smartest in their group. Why couldn’t that one be Warren’s best friend instead of Steve’s naïve and annoying spawn? 

“If you’re worried about a cave-in or tunnel collapse, I can shore-up the walls and ceiling.” Layla suggested. A perfectly rational solution to Jetstream’s perceived problem. 

To illustrate this, Layla placed a hand to the ground under the newly made hole in the wall created by Will and the Commander falling through it. Thick roots began to grow outward from her hands. Slithering up the walls, filling in the weak points. Pressing the ceiling up, strengthening it against a possible cave-in. She turned to smile at everyone. The arbiter of a practical solution. 

Battle liked her too. He greatly approved of Warren’s association with her, even if the nature of that association was a little confusing. 

“Now that that’s settled,” Magenta pipped up, also becoming frustrated with the ‘seasoned veterans’ acting like squabbling children, “let’s see Will and Mr. Stronghold smash!”

The Commander looked at everyone. With the exceptions of his own wife, and maybe their son, everyone else seemed to be on board with this ‘just crash through the catacombs breaking down walls’ plan. How did Barron manage to do this? He wasn’t particularly social. He wasn’t even particularly likeable. He was hostile, and rude, and violent, and disrespectful. All qualities that were supposed to make a person unlikable. Yet, he somehow also managed to be charming. Without even trying, he got people to trust him –to like him- for no reason. 

Steve looked to Will. The younger man seemed to be on the fence about Barron Battle and his plan. 

Will looked to Warren. He didn’t know the older man all that well, so he trusted his best friend to judge the merits of his father’s plan. 

Warren blinked. With that small shift in the Commander and Will, suddenly the whole group was now looking at him. “Uh… I mean… does anyone else have a better plan?”

No one else had a better plan. 

Not unless just walking in through the same passage that Speed took, that they were already expecting them to come from, and would have set traps or an ambush, was a plan. 

Steve sighed. “Alright.”

“Great!” Battle flashed a puckish grin. “Start with that wall.”

He pointed to a side wall of the tomb where the bodies were relatively undisturbed. Skeletons still dressed in their funeral clothes, laying on pallets, as if sleeping on bunks. Steve looked back at the other man, visibly uncomfortable. Battle might not care about desecrating the dead, but Steve Stronghold had some very strong reservations about it. 

Everyone was still staring at him. 

Steve groaned. “I hate this…” 

He cracked his neck and his knuckles. Then heaved a long sigh, more like an exaggerated exhale to force a calm. Then the Commander threw all his super-strength and destructive force against the shelves of ancient skeletons. The dry and brittle wood didn’t so much splinter as it crumbled at his mere touch. Expecting more resistance than he got, Steve barreled through the stone behind the pallets and nearly fell face-flat into another chamber. He caught himself before he fell and everyone else politely pretended they hadn’t seen him stumble. 

The Commander coughed as his violent entrance kicked up centuries old dust. He motioned for Will to take the next wall. 

Moving like that, they made their way through the catacombs. 

Will would break down a wall, then the Commander would get the next one, then Will would get the one after that, then back to the Commander. Each pause and switch giving the other opportunity to recover from breaking into a crypt or antechamber, breathing in a cloud of dust made of who-knew-what, or being showered with bones they did not know were arranged on the other side. Battle might not mind the dead, but being showered with human remains was rather traumatic for most normal people, and –accepting for super powers- the Strongholds were fairly normal people. 

Finally, Battle halted the party. 

“Hang on, Steve Jr.” Battle grabbed the younger man’s fist before it could collide with the wall. 

He was pulled forward a couple inches before Will halted the blow. The younger man’s strength almost pulling Battle off his feet. 

“Mr. Battle, Warren and I both have told you multiple times that my name is-“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m sure your name’s great.” Battle cut him off. “But I need you to be quiet now.” He pressed the palm of one hand flat against the wall Will was about to smash through, then leaned in closer to press his ear to it as well. “They’re on the other side of this wall.”

Battle began kicking at the seem where wall met floor. Scraping away what might have at one time been myrrh, or incents, heck, it might have even just been straw for all they knew. No one in their group knew what was supposed to be put in these catacombs when they were new. Most of them only just learned Maxville had catacombs today. Finally, all of Battle’s kicking and scraping at the dirt and dust near the wall paid off. He uncovered a hole. 

A crack, really. Not very big at all. Just big enough to let a little light through. Enough confirmation that there was, indeed someone on the other side. 

Battle motioned for Magenta to come forward. “I haven’t seen your other form, but can it fit through there?”

She looked down at the crack. It was small. It would be a bit of a squeeze for her. But rodents could squeeze. It be uncomfortable, but not impossible. “Sure.”

Magenta crouched down. Folding her hands on the ground in front of her and bending over. Almost touching her forehead to her finger tips. He body began to shrink. Clothing disappearing over a layer of thick fur, brown streaked with lavender and violet. By the time her transformation was done, the guinea pig was no larger than Battle’s own foot. He looked down at her with fascination. It was such an oddly specific power, but –in this case, at least- a very useful one. 

The squeeze through the wall was an uncomfortable one. It was a tight space and the crack was uneven. Jagged pieces of stone jutting out in odd places. But it was also a quick squeeze. The wall was not that thick, the passage not that long. Magenta’s franticly wiggling nose was out the other side almost as soon as her round rodent rump disappeared from her comrades’ view. 

On the other side was not what Magenta expecting to see. 

There was Speed, him they already knew would be there. He was pacing with impatience, sitting still never being a quality attributed to speedsters, even when waiting he kept in constant motion. “Gawd! How slow are they!?”

Sitting on what might have been a stone coffin was Lash. He yawned with boredom. Crossing one leg over the other, twisting them together like a corkscrew, then untwisting them and repeating the same motion the other way. Almost like he needed to pee. But when he did the same thing with his arms, Magenta decided it was more likely some weird elastic-man stretching technique. 

Penny was closest to the main passage’s entrance to the chamber. Three of her stood blocking the doorway. Standing shoulder to shoulder, their hands on their hips. Then two more appeared, popping out of the center body with a bit of a sparkle like they always did. All five turned to address Speed and Lash. “Which do you think it more intimidating? Three of me, or five of me? Three says I don’t see them as much of a threat. But five is less trifling in a fight.”

“There’s ten of them.” Speed reminded her. “So, five means nothing. You’d still be outnumbered two-to-one.”

“Try twelve of you.” Lash suggested. His tone implied this was a joke. 

“Please, no.” Speed shook his head. “With that much of her in here, there wouldn’t be any space left for us!”

“Well, maybe no space for you.” Lash snickered. Reaching his arms over his head, the elastic-man made his torso as thin and skinny as a lamp post. “I don’t need much space.”

“They really are taking a long time.” Penny commented.

“Did Peace stop to do his hair?” Another Penny joked. 

“If he did, I hope he stopped to give some hair-care tips to Layla.” Added a third with a giggle. “Have you seen some of the absurd styles she used to wear at school!”

All five Penny’s chortled in stereo. 

If guinea pigs possessed the ability, Magenta would have rolled her eyes. Instead, she turned her attention to looking for Royal Pain, or Faultline, or both. 

The chamber the minions were waiting in didn’t seem all that large. More of a ‘receiving room’, than a proper tomb. Opposite the entrance that the Pennys were blocking was a second doorway. Wider than the main entrance. With even more light poring through it. 

Magenta cast a cautious glance at the minions to make sure they hadn’t seen her. But Speed, Lash, and Penny were now fully engrossed in a conversation mocking everyone in Will and Warren’s friends group. “And Stronghold brought both his parents along!” “Aw, poor baby needs mommy and daddy to hold his hands!” They all laughed.

Sticking close to the walls, Magenta scurried through the dust to the other doorway and poked her head into the other chamber. 

This one was much, much larger. And better lit. A series of work lamps had been arranged, hanging from disused wall scones, or clipped onto the old and unreliable rafters. All with wires connecting them to a portable generator that would be unaffected by the city’s blackout. 

Stitches, Royal Pain’s right-hand man hopped and skipped around the room, giggling with excitement. 

In the center of the room was a large… machine. 

Magenta wasn’t quite sure how else to describe it. It took up almost the whole space from celling to floor. With pipes fed through holes drilled into the floor, delving deeper underground, and pistons that ended in what looked like hammers pressed up against the ceiling. The whole thing looked like it had been pieced together from parts salvaged from other machines. Some of the parts looked almost factory new, clean and shiny, not a single oil or exhaust stain on them. Other parts looked like they’d been lifted from machines as old as the industrial revolution. But they all fit together so well. As if they’d been arranged and assembled by one who understood machines on an intuitive level. 

Like a technopath!

“I’m almost done!” Magenta heard Royal Pain’s voice before the other woman appeared, poking her head out of an opening in the machine that looked suspiciously like a cockpit cradle, or a driver’s seat. 

The face of Gwen Grayson appeared, her hair pulled back into a messy pony-tail, a smear of grease on her young face. She wasn’t passing for a teenager anymore. In the interim years between her arrest and the breakout she had aged to look like someone in their early twenties. Still two decades younger than then forty-nine (almost fifty!) years old she actually was. She was wearing the practical-female-armor of her Royal Pain costume, but sans the mask, helmet, and cape. 

Another woman came around from the other side of the machine. Wearing climbing shoes instead of the more common boots that most supers seemed to favor. Her costume was in ivory and brown. Tight pants with a wide utility belt. Equally tight shirt with a high collar, but only three quarter sleeves. In one hand, she held a spelunking helmet with goggles tucked inside. Magenta had never seen her face before, but she recognized the costume from the mentor matches. That was Will’s mentor! Bedrock. The super with earth-based powers that was obsessed with Faultline. 

She wasn’t obsessed with Faultline. She was Faultline!

“This will amplify your powers so that we can level the city with just one quake.” Royal Pain smiled. “We can kill them all at once! I wish I could see the look on Steve Stronghold’s dumb face when he’s buried alive! Oh! I hope he’s in his own Secret Sanctum when it happens!”

“And Josie too!” Bedrock-Faultline-whatever-her-name-was laughed. 

Stitches came up behind them, wrapping one arm around each woman and joining in the moment. Sharing a psychotic laugh at the idea of leveling an entire city and killing millions of people just to get back at two supers that had wronged them. 

“The three of us, together again.” Smiled Stitches. “I just wish Barron could be here too…”

The laughter subsided. “I tried to work the quake so that all of you were freed.” Faultline explained. “But it’s hard to shape an earthquake.”

“My machine will help with that.” Royal Pain assured the other woman. It didn’t just make her powers stronger, it allowed her to shape the destruction. Target only certain areas if she wanted to. “Besides, Barron’s a clever guy. If he wanted to be here, he would have found us.”

“I saw his son a couple days ago.” Faultline announced. “He was wearing a mask at the time, but I swear, he looks just like him!”

Royal Pain shrugged, unimpressed. “He’s moody and volatile. Typical fire user personality. Nothing like Barron at all. I never even bothered trying to recruit him for my initial plan four years ago.”

“I take it he won’t be much of a threat, then.” Faultline asserted. 

“No.” Agreed the other woman. “He’s nothing.”

Magenta had learned all she felt she needed from her little reconnaissance. She scurried back to the crack in the wall that would take her back to the chamber her own team was waiting in. Keeping close to the walls, trying to stay out of sight, pausing every now and again, not moving a muscle whenever one of the henchmen moved in a way that might turn them towards her. 

Finally, the guinea pig squeezed back through the same jagged crack she’d come through. 

She transformed back into her human shape. 

Everyone crowded around her for her report. 

“The other side is broken up into two rooms.” Magenta announced. “On the other side of this wall Speed, Lash, and Penny are waiting for us. But they expect us to be coming from the tunnel, just like Mr. Battle predicted. Through a door there’s another room, bigger. Royal Pain, Stitches, and Faultline are in that room. Royal Pain’s making something for Faultline. Some big machine that’ll enhance Faultline’s powers.”

“Enhance?” Zach echoed. “As in, make her powers worse!”

Wasn’t the first earthquake destructive enough!? What did Faultline want to do? Reduce Maxville to nothing more than a bed of flat dust. An empty valley floor surrounded by mountains. 

“There’s one more thing you need to know before we go in, Will.” Magenta added. 

“Me?” Will blinked at being singled out. 

“Faultline,” she began to explain, “is actually your mentor, Bedrock. Or, I mean, Bedrock was really Faultline all along. She was pulling a Gwen.”

“No way!” Will exclaimed in disbelief. “I was tricked by another old-lady villain?”

“You didn’t make out with her too, did you?” Warren jeered. 

“No!” Will was quick to assure the group. He was more concerned that he was tricked and manipulated by another villain posing as a hero. Why did this keep happening to him? “I don’t understand though. Why didn’t I see it before?”

Layla placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s only happened two times.” She reminded him. “That’s just a coincidence. It’s not a pattern until it happens three times.”

Amazingly, this did not comfort the young Stronghold. It only made him apprehensive, thinking that a third time was inevitable. 

“How in the heck did Linda Powers even vet these mentors!?” Josie exclaimed, hostile with righteous anger at her only child being given over to the care of a mentor that turned out to be a supervillain in disguise. “Titan’s recruiting for the private industry, Flamebird is a villain-lover, and Bedrock is a villain!”

Battle sighed, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah. This seems like a good time to discuss that.”

Josie flashed him an acid look. 

She hated his because he was right. No matter how valid and legitimate her complaint with the new program that had replaced sidekicks was, now was not the time to voice those concerns and this group was not the body that needed to hear her complaints. 

“Any other comments from the peanut gallery?” Battle asked, his eyes sweeping over the rest of the party. Steve, Will, Layla, Ethan, Zach, Magenta, even Warren and Mara got a glare. Daring them to delay their mission further. When no one said anything, Battle continued. “Alright, Steves you’re up.” He beckoned to both Will and the Commander. “Break down this wall. The rest of you, get ready for a fight! Try and neutralize the henchmen, or if you can’t do that, keep them occupied so that I can get to Sue and Terra. They know me. I can reason with them. And if they won’t listen to reason –unlike the rest of you- I’m not squeamish about killing. I’ll take care of them permanently so they don’t come back.”

This announcement prompted a lot of awkward glances from everyone. They were all heroes. Heroes did not kill. Heroes were not comfortable with the idea of knowingly allowing someone else to killing. 

“Is that-“ Will began, haltingly. He looked to Warren for support. Not just as his best friend, but also as Barron Battle’s son and someone the older man would be more likely to listen to. “-the best plan we can come up with?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, “I, um…” Warren joined in, in support of his friend. “I don’t think we should be killing. We’re trying to be heroes and heroes don’t- -don’t do that.”

The Commander clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, proud of his protégé for choosing the right side. 

Battle made a face of disapproval at the Commander laying a hand on his boy and grabbed Warren’s other shoulder. “You don’t have to be a hero.” 

“You don’t have to be a villain either!” Steve cut in. “You don’t have to be like your father. You can make your own choices.”

“You don’t have to choose what that school and Steve over here are trying to strong arm you into choosing.” Battle argued. “Keep your own mind and do what feels natural.”

“Think about your friends.” Steve reminded him. “Think of Will. Would they still even be your friends if you became a villain?”

Now it was the kids’ turn to make sour faces. They did not much appreciate being used as emotional blackmail in a battle between good and evil over Warren’s soul. 

“Using your own child to manipulate mine, Steve? Oh, yeah, that’s real heroic!” Battle snarled. 

Frustrated with both of them, Warren pulled out of their hold. “Both of you, stop it! We just asked for a different plan that didn’t hinge of killing as a solution.”

Layla came up and took Warren’s hand. Somehow, the group shifted so that she, Warren, and Will were standing shoulder to shoulder, facing opposite their parents. All three holding hands, borrowing strength from one another. 

“Now,” began Layla calmly, seemingly the only voice of reason in their group, “without breaking out into another fight, does anyone else have any better ideas besides just ‘let Mr. Battle kill the bad guys’?”


	17. An Episode of Scooby-Doo

Lash yawned loudly, draping his body over the stone table Speed kept insisting was a dead-person box. Chest flattening to be as wide and thin as a sheet, arms dangling like string. He let his self almost literally unwind, before lifting his floss-thin arms up, stretching to the ceiling. Then pulled his body back together so that he resembled a normal man in his early twenties. He yawned again. 

“Did Stronghold and his sidekicks just give up or something?” He asked. “Where are they?”

“Yeah.” The twelve voices of twelve Penny Lents agreed with him. 

“I get that I’m fast and all.” Speed sighed. “But I didn’t think they were either this slow, or this far away when I found them.”

All twelve Penny’s, in four perfectly arranged lines of three, all stretched in unison. Lunging on the left leg, then the right. Bringing her ankles together and bending down to touch her toes. Straightening her back and reaching her arms above her head, bending to one side, then the other. She was limbering up for a fight they were all beginning to doubt might happen at all. 

Did all heroes procrastinate this much when it was time for a huge climactic confrontation? Or were Stronghold and his group just special?

“Anybody got a deck of cards on them?” Asked Speed, already knowing the answer was probably ‘no’. One royalty themed and one joker themed member of their group and nobody carried a neck of playing cards on them. 

“None of my clothes have pockets.” Penny informed him. 

“We could play charades.” Suggested Lash. The elastic-man excelled at that game. 

Before they could launch into a long –and ultimately pointless- argument on how they should pass the time waiting for the heroes to show up, they were distracted by a sound from the corridor. A strange clanking. Hollow, almost. Like when wooden wind chimes ganged together to make a sound. 

But that couldn’t be right. People did not put up wind chimes in catacombs. There was no wind underground. 

Speed gave Lash a little shove, pushing the elastic-man off his seat. “Dude, go see what that was.”

“Me?” He echoed. “You’re the speedster. Scouting and recon should be your job.”

“I found Stronghold and his sidekicks.” Speed reminded him. “You can go see what that noise was in the dark hallway.”

Penny surreptitiously took a step back, hoping to avoid the boys’ notice. She sure as heck wasn’t going to be the one to go off on her own to investigate a strange noise in the dark! 

“Ugh, fine!” Lash groaned. “But if I die, I’m coming back as a ghost to haunt you!”

He grabbed a flashlight from a pile of supplies they had stolen earlier in the day and stepped closer to the entrance of the passage. Pausing to cast a scathing glance back at his companions. Speed, with his super-speed was far better suited to going to scout out strange sounds than he was. If it were an ambush, Penny with her multiple forms was better suited to dispatch it than he was. But, somehow, the group decided Lash was the one who would go off alone into the dark to investigate the strange noise. 

With a groan and a few colorful words describing their general attitudes and level of friendship, Lash stomped into the dark corridor. 

The focused beam of the flashlight provided enough light for him not to trip on an uneven stone displaced by the quake, or a stubborn root that was bold enough to grow through the tunnel. But it didn’t really illuminate the passage very far in front of him. Lash couldn’t actually what he was heading towards –if he were heading towards anything at all. Then the passage came to a bend and he turned the corner-

-and nearly had a heart attack!

The elastic-man gasped and let it out as a sound he was not going to admit might have been a scream. Falling flat on his ass, the stretch villain scuttled backwards on his hands and knees, flashlight forgotten on the ground. 

The abandoned flashlight shone on the bony foot of a skeleton. Still dressed in its funeral clothes. Colonial in look and design. Stockings under britches that ended just below the knee, waistcoat and jacket, cravat with an old brooch, all of it topped off with a tri-corner hat. 

It was the old dry bones clinking together that made the sound of hollow wind chimes. 

Except… old dry bones weren’t supposed to move on their own. 

And there hadn’t been a skeleton here the last time Lash passed through this corridor. When they first came down with Royal Pain to help her old friend, Faultline. Did Speed put it up? Some practical joke at his expense. A way to pass the time while they waited for the sidekicks to come and bother them. 

“You… should not be here…” Crooned a voice in the dark. The syllables drawn out, making the words sound like they were spoken by the wind, and not a person. 

Except, underground, in the tunnels and catacombs below the city, there was no wind. The air barely moved. The air wasn’t moving right now. 

Lash’s hair stood up on the back of his neck. 

Then the skeleton moved. 

The bones clinking together, making that hollow clattering sound. Similar to wooden wind chimes. The arm lifted, bony hand extending towards him, as if meaning to grab him. 

Scuttling backwards on his hands, Lash backed away from the outstretched skeleton. 

A light flared into life behind the skeleton, flickering like fire, but burning blue. It illuminated several more skeletons behind the first. All wearing old timey clothes. Colonial militia, and soldiers in red or blue coats, turn of the century suits, Civil War soldiers from both sides, women in bonnets and corsets. All standing on their own. All with boney arms outstretched. 

“Now… you have to stay…” Said the voice in the dark. 

“Stay… with us…” Echoed more voice. More than just the first. Men’s and women’s voices. Calling through the dark. “Become one of us… one of us…”

Getting his feet under him, Lash ran back to the chamber where Speed and Penny waited for his report. It wasn’t Stronghold and his sidekicks. It was ghosts. Vengeful ghosts! The catacombs were haunted! 

He burst through the passage into the light of the chamber. Almost knocking over one of the Penny’s when he barreled into her. The force of the collision flattening Lash’s body against hers, his limbs elongating to wrap themselves around her in a something none of the henchmen were going to call a ‘hug’. Lash might have been scared, but he wasn’t a child. 

“What the heck!?” Penny demanded, finding one of herselves almost completely enveloped by the elastic-man. She pulled that duplicate of herself back into the main body just to get her out of Lash’s entangled arms. 

“G-g-ghosts!” He cried in the best impression of an episode of Scooby-Doo any of them had ever seen. “It’s angry ghosts! They’re trying to kill us and trap us here with them!”

Unsurprisingly, both Speed and Penny looked at him like he’d suddenly gone insane. Everyone knew ghosts didn’t exist. Supers with powers that might give the appearance of ghosts, yes. Supers with powers that gave the appearance of hauntings, sure. Hell! There were even supers out there that could reanimate the dead. They’d even heard of supers that could die themselves and then come back –not as zombies, just as every bit as normal –relatively- as they were before they died. 

But none of those were ghosts. 

“Stop playing around and get serious.” Penny admonished him. 

They were in the middle of a supervillain undertaking that would go down in the history books. They were going to destroy Maxville, superhero central. Their names would be recorded in the annals of villainy for countless generations to come to study. And Lash was trying to play a practical joke on them. Ghosts in a catacomb. Did he think they were stupid?

“Yeah, dude, this isn’t cool.” Speed agreed. 

Lash just continued to hyperventilate, the adrenaline pumping through his spindly body refusing to allow him to calm down. 

And adrenaline was infectious. Not because either of them believe Lash’s crazy story of ghosts, but because he was clearly so stricken and panicked, the hairs on Speed’s back stood on end. Penny felt a chill run down her back. Their fight or flight response being triggered by their friend’s fear. 

Then they heard the sound of wind chimes again. Of hollow wood clinking against hollow wood and Lash knew that it wasn’t wood. It was old dry bones. Clanking together as the ghastly specters moved. The sound growing louder. A procession of the dead coming towards them. 

Blue flame preceded them. 

Two balls of fire, glowing an eerie shade of teal drifted in through the passage. Flickering in the air. They cast odd shadows against the walls of the chamber. Shadows that danced with the flickering of the blue flame. Making it seem like there was more in the room with them than just what could be physically touched. 

Then the first skeleton came through. Moving with jerking, halted steps. As if it didn’t quite know how to walk, or how to move being only bones with no flesh or muscle to propel it. It half walked, half drifted in through the doorway, a halo of spider-thin roots tangled around its shoulders and head. 

More were close behind it. Revolutionary soldiers from both sides, militia soldiers. Civil War soldiers. Villagers and cowboys. Women in corsets and bonnets, petticoats and frocks. All of them nothing but bone under their clothes. All of them moving in the same jerking, halted way. All of them covered in tiny roots. Going from their heads and down their arms. Even their legs. As if they’d all just climbed out of their graves and were still covered in the dirt of the earth they clawed through. 

Speed screamed. But later, when they would retell this tale, he would say it was Penny. 

Penny pulled all of her duplicate selves back into her main body so that there was only one of her. She didn’t know what would happen if one of these spectral wights got a hold of one of her. 

“See! See!” Lash placed both Penny and Speed between himself and the fell creatures. “I told you!”

“Join us…” Spoke the skeletons with multiple voices. All of them with arms outstretched. Reaching for the trio. Beckoning them to come forward and join the host of the dead. 

Gwen didn’t say anything about this! Royal Pain was so smart and calculating. Surely she must have known that the catacombs were haunted. Did the haunting figure into her plan somehow? Or Faultline’s plan? The earth user had to know what lurked underground. 

Speed was the first to turn. Abandoning his fellow henchmen and fleeing for the relative safety of the second chamber, and the powers of Faultline and Royal Pain to protect him. They were the bosses. The bosses would know what to do. 

Both Royal Pain and Faultline looked up, startled, when all three henchmen came bursting into the larger chamber. 

“The hell!?” Exclaimed Faultline. 

“What are you idiots doing?” Growled Royal Pain. 

“Ghosts!” Exclaimed Lash by way of explanation. 

“Zombies!” Cried Penny, almost sobbing. She rapidly split herself into multiple duplicates then pulled them back into herself several times. Not sure if she should be outnumbering the fell wights for a fight, or if she should be keeping herselves tight inside the better to flee and escape. 

“They’re real!” Insisted Speed. He wasn’t sure what to call them. Ghosts, or zombies, or wights. But they were dead and they were coming after them. 

No sooner had these panicked exclamations been exchanged, then the very skeletons they were discussing came shambling through the door. 

In the brighter lighting of the electric work lamps Royal Pain had them set up they looked far less frightening and more comical. Old dry bones clacking together like wooden sticks. Moving in jerking uneven steps. No grace or speed to their motion. If the skeletons hadn’t been blocking the door they would not have been hard to out run and escape. They did not seem like quite so much of a threat in the light. 

The roots they noted early were more pronounced now. Not just hallowing the skulls and arms, but twisting under the clothing as well. Down the legs and around the bony feet. Roots as thin as spider webs, so fine they were almost invisible in the dark. But in the light it was clearer to see that the roots came down from the ceiling, suspending the skeletons. Holding them up. Making it appear as if they were standing on their own power. Moving them like the strings of a marionette. 

Not ghosts then. Not zombies. Not wights. 

Puppets!

Puppets on roots instead of strings.

And there was one person they already knew was in the catacombs that could create and control plants on a whim. 

“You’re all idiots!” Royal Pain snarled at her henchmen. “This was just a distraction to get you away from your post!”

Pushing past Speed, Lash, and Penny, Royal Pain knocked the skeletons to the side. Bones clanking against bones loudly as she shoved them roughly out of her way into the smaller chamber. In the other room, behind all the skeletons covered in rooter was Layla. Dressed all in green. Yoga pants and a light jacket. Like she was just on her way to the gym. Arms crossed as if she were some kind of intimidating, non-pacifist, conventional superhero. 

Standing next to her was Warren Peace, adding pinches of some kind of redish-brown dust to his fireballs to turn it blue. 

“No way! The ghost were really Layla all along!” Exclaimed Penny, disbelieving that the dorky hippy could come up with something so… devious. Warren, maybe. He definitely had the right kind of mean streak in him. But his part seemed so small. 

“And I would’ve gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for you meddling adults.” Layla smiled at them. 

Warren groaned. Layla’s humor was just a little too campy for Mr. Grr-Arg-Rawr.

Faultline and Stitches came through the door to join Royal Pain and her henchmen in seeing what was actually going on. All of them were out of the larger chamber and away from the earthquake machine now. 

“What am I seeing here?” Ask Lash, still coming down from his panic and not yet able to think clearly. 

Royal Pain growled with frustration at her own henchmen. “Clearly, the tree-hugger strung up some old bones they found in the tunnels to scare you and the useless pyro is adding something to his fire to make it blue and more ‘ghost-like.” A pause. “What is that, oxidized iron?”

“Copper chloride.” Warren corrected. Then remembered he didn’t have to explain himself to villains. Villains were the ones that explained themselves to heroes. For someone who was trying to be a hero, he sure had a lot of villain behaviors. 

“We did voices!” Magenta and Ethan appeared out of the dark to join their friends. “Oooo~ Join us… One of us…”

Unimpressed, Royal Pain rested an armored fist on her hip. “And what was the point of this juvenile prank and parlor trick?”

Ethan pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, I thought our timing would line-up better.”

“Timing for what…?” Asked Royal Pain suspiciously. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Scoffed Magenta, crossing her arms over her chest. “This was just a distraction.”

“Distraction?” Stitches echoed, masked jester head tilting to the side as he blinked. “Distraction from what?”

“They are taking their time.” Ethan commented. 

“I hope they didn’t get into another fight.” Layla admitted, concerned. 

No sooner had she said this, then a loud smashing crash was heard behind the villains. An echoing impact of something heavy and strong colliding with something else heavy and strong. Cracking it and breaking it open. Fragments of stone rolled across the floor, rumbling as they tumbled. All six of the supervillains turned around to see the Commander and Will breaking through the main chamber wall. 

“See! We made it to the machine and no one had to kill anyone!” Will was saying. Speaking over his shoulder as he stepped through the hole in the wall. 

The Commander was next out of the hole after him. 

Followed closely by… another super. Dressed all in black leather. Curly dark hair longish and falling around his face, framing his cheeks and distracting from the wire framed glasses over his eyes. What kind of hero wore their glasses to a fight instead of a mask? He placed himself between the Strongholds, and Royal Pain and Faultline and all their henchmen. Putting his hands on his hips, he looked up at the earthquake machine Royal Pain had made for Faultline. 

“Alright, Steves, get back to smashing.” He ordered, as if he were the ring leader, not the Commander. 

Royal Pain squinted at him. It was so rare to find others within the super community that didn’t gaze at Steve Stronghold with awe and wonder. That didn’t unabashedly admire him for no reason other than he was famous and popular. Or just automatically differed to him even when his ideas were stupid or he was actually, factually, incorrect and misinformed. Most supers worshiped the ground the Commander stomped on. Most supers did not bark short clips of orders at him in overly simplified language to keep from confusing his Neanderthal brain. Royal Pain studied the other super. 

Dressed all in black, more like a villain than a hero –to spite the company he was in. Wire framed glasses over his eyes. Curly hair, kinda long and messy –like he didn’t care how he looked. Giving attitude to Steve Stronghold and getting under his skin to spite the fact that they seemed to be working together. It was all so familiar to Sue Tenny. Coming together to form a conclusion. 

“…Barron?”

The super in black turned around. Yes, that was definitely the face of Barron Battle. Her former best friend from her first round of high school. He was older now. In his late forties –pushing fifty- and he looked it. There were wrinkles where his skin had been smooth. Graying hairs at the roots where his hair used to be a brown so dark it might as well have been black. “Sue.” He nodded to her. “You look, like, twelve.”

She looked like she was twenty-two. 

Speed gasped. “Captain Bondage is really Barron Battle!”

Everyone ignored him. 

“You’re working with Steve?” She accused, sounding betrayed, and choosing to ignore the ‘twelve’ comment. 

Battle looked back at the Commander with a bit of a wince. He might be working with his old rival turned arch nemesis, but he didn’t like it. “’With’ is such a strong word…” he admitted “…’I prefer in proximity to’.”

“He’s right.” Added the Commander from behind Battle. “We’re not really working together. We all shot down his plan and decided to do our own. Now he’s just sort of… here. Ya know. Taking up space.” A pause. “Like a spare tire.”

“I’m hearing a lot of talking and not a lot of smashing up that machine!” Battle snarled at the Commander. “Can’t you see I’m trying to talk to an old friend I haven’t seen in almost thirty years. Don’t interrupt!”

Royal Pain raised an eyebrow. “Are we friends? It looks like you’re working against me.”

“I mean… you and Terra are trying to destroy the city I live in with my family, so… that’s not cool.” Battle admitted. “Also, you totally disappeared thirty years ago during senior year when I really needed you, and maybe I’m still a little bitter about that.” A pause. “You’re not the only one who can hold onto petty grudges from high school, ya know.”

Sue looked unimpressed and unmoved. She crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you mean you ‘needed’ me?” She scoffed more than asked. It wasn’t really a question. She didn’t care about an answer. “You weren’t even in school when I left. You’d been out for, like, weeks!”

“My mother just died!” Battle snarled at her, forgetting for a moment that Steve Stronghold was standing just behind him and able to hear quite clearly. Forgetting that his own son was in the other room, just behind Royal Pain and could also hear him just as clearly. “I told you he’d kill her one day! I told everyone! And then he did! I was out of school for weeks because I was grieving! When I came back, I expected my best friend to be there! But you weren’t! I needed you, Sue, and you weren’t there!”

The younger heroes just stared at him. They all wondered what kind of super Warren’s dad really was. What kind of ‘tragic backstory’ could have motivated him down the path to villainy. What turned him evil. What made him a supervillain. Layla, not only being Warren’s friend, but also the protégé of Warren’s mother, was particularly curious to know what kind of villain he was, or why he was even a villain at all. That little mini-rant he just let slip was exactly the kind of breadcrumb they wanted. 

Warren cast a questioning glance at his mother, lips slightly parted. As if he were about to ask something, but the sound died before it could get out. 

Flamebird put a hand on her son’s shoulder and shook her head. Right now, buried under ground in the catacombs, in the company of people who were not family, and in the presence of enemies, was not the time to press for details of his father’s past that he was too young to know before. She would fill him in later. 

“So that’s it?” Royal Pain asked, still unimpressed. As if she didn’t care to hear about the pain of a person whom had supposedly been her best friend thirty years ago. “Mommy died and now you and Steve are besties.”

“Gross. No.” Battle insisted. “Steve and I are not friends. We’re barely even ‘allies’. But, I did go through thirty years of significant life events and character development since you last saw me in high school. I have different priorities now. Two of my priorities happen to live in Maxville. So, I’m protecting Maxville. As fate would have it, Steve is also protecting Maxville. That puts us on the same side.”

“So now you’re participating in juvenile stunts only slightly less absurd than the average episode of Scooby-Doo.” Faultline scoffed. Her friendship with Barron had already ended twenty years ago the first time she tried to destroy the city. When his dumb bimbo superhero wife was still just his dumb bimbo superhero girlfriend. 

Battle made a big show of taking stock of the situation. Of looking over Faultline, Royal Pain, Stitches, Speed, Lash, and Penny. Then behind him at the earthquake machine and both the Commander and Will next to it. Battle shrugged. “Juvenile, maybe. But I wouldn’t call it ‘absurd’. After all, it did get all of you away from your machine where the Steves over there can disable it unmolested.” A pause. “Which reminds me, I don’t hear smashing back there! C’mon, Steve, use your one marketable skill!”

“Shut-up, Barron!” The Commander snarled back, sounding very much like the ignorant jock from high school he used to be. “You’re a marketable skill!”

That didn’t even make sense. Battle and Royal Pain exchanged a look. An idiot would still always be an idiot. 

The Commander raised a fist and brought it down on the exterior casing of the machine. Not quite sure what he was smashing or if it was a vital part or not. But if they broke the earthquake machine then they wouldn’t have to deal with Faultline’s powers being worsened. They’d just have to deal with her regular level of terrifying and destructive power. But that was something they’d fought before and defeated. It was something they could beat again. 

Seeing the Commander begin to break her latest creation, Royal Pain moved to stop him. To rush forward and protect her machine. 

But Battle stopped her. 

Placing himself between the villainess and the super-strong heroes. He pulled the bayonets off his belt, holding one in each hand. Ready for a fight if it turned out he had to fight his former best friend. They hadn’t seen each other in thirty years. Sue seemed rather unempathetic to hear of his personal tragedies. It was safe to say they weren’t friends anymore. She made herself his enemy, and Barron Battle never had any hang-ups dispatching his enemies. 

“I am prepared to kill you, Sue.” But he did give her fair warning. Out of respect for the relationship they used to have. 

The heroes all exchanged looks. The whole point of the Scooby-Doo plan was to avoid Battle killing anyone.


	18. Decisive Showdown

Several things happened at once. 

Both Will and the Commander started trying to break the large earthquake machine. Using their great strength to break open its armor and casing, and tear into the mechanical workings underneath. 

Battle was between Royal Pain and the Strongholds, holding a bayonet in each hand. But he’d brought knives to a gun fight it seemed. Royal Pain pulled two ray guns of her own design off her belt. 

Speed started running circles around the room, kicking up dust and cutting down on visibility. Making the air rush like wind and whip their hair. Not strong enough to suck out the oxygen –even if it were, there wasn’t anywhere for the oxygen to go in the tight space- he was just trying to confuse the heroes. 

Penny divided in half a dozen of herself to sew yet more confusion. Multiple bodies moving around in the dust. Lashing out from clouds of the kicked-up dirt, or from behind the still hanging skeletons to strike at the heroes. Using acrobatic kicks and dramatic lifts to add force and momentum to her attacks. 

Ethan melted into a puddle and flowed into the speedster’s path to trip him. Speed went sliding, losing control of his own feet, but not losing any forward momentum. 

Layla summoned a tangle of roots to catch him like a net, then twist around the henchman’s body like a spider’s web to trap him. 

The whirling air slowed, but didn’t stop. The already kicked-up dust and dirt still wafting around the heroes and villains in undulating clouds that moved unpredictably with every shift in the agitated air currents. Warren coughed, breathing in the dust. 

Lash took advantage of the pyrokinetic’s distraction to wind his arms around the other man’s ankles and trip him. Warren crashed face first into the stonework floor. 

Both Jetstream and Flamebird hovered up, almost to the ceiling to try and get a better view of what exactly was going on.

Faultline knelt down. She placed one hand to the ground and the whole chamber began to shake. 

Not just the ground. But the walls and the ceiling. Rumbling all around them. 

Flamebird and Jetstream hit their heads as the ceiling jolted down to meet them. Both women rubbed their heads, looking up to make sure the old stones in their already crumbling mortar. Surely Faultline wouldn’t so crazy as to let the chamber cave in while she was still in it! 

Lash also looked up, concerned. He didn’t know much about Faultline except that she was Gwen’s friend and she hated Jetstream as much as Gwen hated the Commander. Gwen was willing to baby-ize an entire school of teenagers, plus adult faculty, staff, parent chaperones, and guests of honor to get her revenge on the Commander. Could Faultline be willing to bury her self, her old friends, and all their henchmen alive if it meant killing her arch nemesis? 

Warren coughed out the dirt from his lungs, wiped his face, and set his legs on fire to get the elastic-man off him. With difficulty, he climbed back to his feet. Balancing unsteadily on account of the shaking. He looked around to make sure his friends were okay. 

Acting fast, Layla threw up more roots. Big thick ones this time. Twisting up the walls and across the ceiling. Shoring everything up. Supporting the ceiling and strengthening the walls. Supporting the practically ancient stonework and making sure the whole place didn’t come crashing down on them. 

The puddle that was Ethan shook and splash, and he had to re-solidify himself to keep from draining into through small cracks that formed in the floor. “Why did we think it was a good idea to chase an earthquake supervillain underground!?”

A pyramid of Pennys that was about to launch the top most duplicate onto Magenta fell over. Unbalanced by the shaking. 

Still tangled up and held by Layla’s roots, Speed looked suddenly panicked. Speedsters weren’t used to being immobilized, and Speed sure as hell didn’t wanna be immobilized underground during another earthquake! In Speed’s personal opinion, he was too young to die. And he was too cool to be buried alive. 

Battle was thrown off balance and he had to do some awkward and utterly graceless footwork to keep from falling over all together. He might also have cut himself again with his bayonets, but no one saw. So he could deny that it ever happened. He was a highly skilled weapons master. He was not a klutzy old man. 

Royal Pain had no such balance issues with the quake. She had the forethought to install gyroscopic soles in her boots that would correct for the ground shifts and keep her level and upright. That was all just part of being a genius as well as a technopath. 

Both Will and the Commander lost their balance and fell away from the earthquake machine. Hard. Flat on their asses. The stone cracked with butt-shaped imprints where they fell. 

The Strongholds out of the way, Faultline stood, but the shaking kept going. She seemed like the only one who could walk in a straight line with the ground trembling under their feet. She walked right past the Commander and Will, who were just trying to pick themselves up off the floor, and climbed into what looked like the cockpit of the machine. 

There was the heartbeat of a pause when the shaking stopped. Everything was still. The gathered heroes and villains all glanced between each other. Making eye-contact. Silently asking if right here. Underground. With the heavy buildings of the city above them. Was really where they wanted to have their fight with an earthquake maker among them. 

But then the shaking started again. 

Different from before. 

As Royal Pain said, the device allowed the earth-user to shape her quakes. Focus them in ways earthquakes were not meant to focus. The ground under Royal Pain’s feet was stable. Almost not even moving at all. So was the floor where Lash was still sitting. And where Speed was all tied up in roots. Under the feet of each individual Penny duplicate. They could all stand and move just fine. No shaking for them. 

But for everyone else…

The heroes were thrown so violently, they all lost their footing and crashed on the floor. Will, the Commander, Warren, Layla, Magenta, Zach, and Ethan. The ground under them becoming unstable. Shaking vigorously. Fissures opened up in the floor, threatening to drop them down into a lower chamber. 

Layla had to grow a quick network of roots to keep herself and Magenta from falling through. It caught them like a safety net. 

Flamebird grabbed Warren before he similarly fell. Wrapping both hands around her son’s wrist and pulling him up out of the hole. 

The Commander actually did fall, only managing to hold onto the edge of the crack by his fingertips. Will had to fly out and pull his father with him. 

“I told you we shouldn’t have chased her down here!” Jetstream shouted over the rumbling. “Faultline has the advantage down here!”

Royal Pain smirked. “And thanks to me, it’s an advantage that we can share!”

Her helmet snapped up around her head. A darkened visor with golden crown ornament. A ray gun in each hand. 

Two Pennys bend down over Speed to pull at the roots he was tangled up in. Pulling him free. 

Lash sprang back to his feet. Ready to kick some uppity sidekick butt! It was a revenge re-match they couldn’t lose. They would be the first henchmen and supervillains in history to kill their arch nemeses! Not just their own nemeses, but the Commander and Jetstream too! They would be immortalized in history as the villains that killed the Commander and Jetstream!

Still holding onto Warren and hovering above the group to avoid the shaking, Flamebird looked around the room. Layla was smart. Spreading her roots over all the fissures and cracks that opened up so that no one else fell through. Magenta was helping her climb out of their own net of roots. Ethan and Zach were standing back to back, standing in flimsy defense stances, their footing unsure. Will was carrying the Commander, and Jetstream was sticking close to them. 

There was just one member of their party she didn’t see. 

“Anyone have eyes on Barron?” Flamebird demanded, shouting to be heard over the rumbling. 

“Little busy over here!” Jetstream shouted back at the other woman. They had much more pressing matters than seeing if Mara Peace’s supervillain baby-daddy had fallen down and couldn’t get up again. In fact, they were probably better off without him. Good riddance. 

Shaping and focusing the tremors above where Jetstream was hovering, Faultline increased the shaking. Forcing a large slab of the celling to break free. 

“Mom, look out!” Will dropped the Commander and flew to push his mother out of the way. The stone slab crashed on him instead, but Will’s super strength allowed him to shake it off. 

The Commander crouched on all fours, the only way he could stay balanced, cast his eyes around, searching for a way that he could help. It would be easy if he could just get back at the earthquake machine. But with all the shaking he could barely even stand, never mind move. But it was what he had to do. 

As much as Steve hated to admit it –even to himself- Barron was right. He and Will should have smashed up and destroyed that machine when they had the chance. Instead of eavesdropping intently on the interpersonal drama between Sue and Barron. If they had managed to break the earthquake machine before Terra got in it, then she wouldn’t have this fine control of her quakes and she would censor her powers for fear of harming herself in the underground space. 

Forcing himself to his feet, the Commander tried to stumble to the machine. 

But was very quickly kicked in the side by the gold-chrome plated boot of Royal Pain. “Imagining you being buried alive in your own Secret Sanctum was nice.” He couldn’t see her face, but her voice sounded like she was grinning at him. Grinning from ear to ear. As if this were the most fun she’d had in years. “But I like getting the chance to kill you myself much better!”

She pointed one of her ray guns at him. Steve didn’t think, he just acted. The moment he saw the barrel of her weapon trained on him he rolled away. Unable to stand, he let his body relax, lifted his arms over his head, and rolled like a log across the floor. His cape twisting around him. 

But the shaking of the chamber carried him back to Royal Pain. He rolled in one wide circle –almost falling in a fissure- and ended up right back where he started at Royal Pain’s feet. 

“Really?” She asked from behind her helmet. “Did you forget that I have an ally that controls the very ground itself?”

Steve chose not to dignify that with a response. Mostly because he couldn’t think of anything witty to say. 

With Penny’s help, Speed was freed from Layla’s roots and back on his feet. He hopped from foot to foot for a quick second, just to test his balance. With a power like his, Faultline wouldn’t be able to keep the ground under his feet stable. He’d move to fast for her to compensate. But that was fine. Because all the dumb heroes and sidekicks were just as disadvantaged. 

He zoomed around the room. Doing one quick circuit to take stock of everything. Then he shoved Layla and Magenta back into the fissure they just climbed out of. They didn’t fall far. They were caught again by Layla’s net of roots, but they weren’t on their feet and able to fight. That was what mattered. 

The speedster grabbed Ethan and, using his own momentum, spun around and threw the other man against the chamber wall. Ethan splattered into a puddle of yellow and orange goo, trickled down the wall and splashed over the shaking floor. When he re-solidified into his human for –mostly unharmed- he was dizzy and disoriented. 

Then Speed zipped back to Zach and pushed the glowstick into the nearest crack. It was one of the ones Layla had covered with roots. But it got him off the field and without a friend to help pull him out, he would not have an easy time pulling himself back out and rejoining the fight. 

Hovering in his mother’s hold, Warren glared at the blur that was Speed, moving through the chamber and picking off his friends one at a time. “Mom, lemme down.”

Flamebird pursed her lips. She did not like the landscape of this fight. The villains clearly had the advantage and she still couldn’t find Battle. She had no idea where her husband went and it concerned her that he seemed to –for all intents and purposes- vanished in the confusion. If he was going to run away, he could have at least waited for her and Warren so they could go with them. She was a little reluctant to let go of her son for fear of losing him too in the confusion. 

“Mom, I gotta help.” Warren pressed. 

Reluctantly, Flamebird lowered her son down. She knew what it felt like to be young, and idealistic, and care about things. She didn’t fully agree with him, but she understood. 

Lighting both arms on fire, Warren placed both his hands to the stone floor. His fire didn’t have the heat or years of pent-up resentment and channeled hatred that his mother’s fire had. But it was enough to heat the floor immediately around his body enough to melt the rubber soles of Speed’s sneakers the next time the speedster made a pass of the chamber. 

“Ah. Ah. Ah.” Speed skidded to a halt, hopping from foot to foot and trying to peel off his melting shoes. “Not cool, dude!”

Warren smirked. 

“Of course it’s not cool.” Will agreed, setting up for a heroic pun. “It’s hot.”

“You’re not really the first one in the group I’d choose to call me ‘hot’, but… thanks, dude. You’re not so bad yourself.” Warren smirked, more from satisfaction at having taken care of the speedster rather than his friend’s comment. 

The ground gave another violent jolt and both men had to grab each other to keep from falling over. 

“Now if you could take care of that earthquake machine as easily.” Will lamented. 

Warren glared across the chamber to the machine. “I guess I could try and make it over heat.” He suggested. “It might short out.”

Nodding, Will scooped Warren up in his arms and flew through the shaking room. 

He set the pyrokinetic down on top of the machine. Or, at least, as close to on top of the machine as he could safely with all the moving parts. 

Warren reignited his flames and laid his hands flat against the casing of the machine. He didn’t know what was under the plating. If he actually was overheating sensitive mechanisms that needed to be kept at controlled temperatures or not. At the very least, he was making the climate inside the cockpit uncomfortable. That was something, right.

“Maybe try burning hotter.” Will suggested, not understanding the nature of fire-based superpowers. 

Fire was the power of emotion and while Warren Peace had plenty of anger to burn through, anger, issues of inadequacy, insecurity, and desperation to be accepted, none of them ran deep enough to be the kind of powerful fuel that could turn a blaze into an inferno. Those kinds of emotions came from life altering events, and the only life altering event significant enough to give Warren that kind of depth of feeling he was shielded and cushioned from by his parents. It wasn’t until he got to his own freshman year of high school that he realized just how traumatic it should have been for him. But the knowledge of how bad something could have been for him was not enough to stoke his fires. 

His mother on the other hand…

Warren lifted his head, eyes searching for his mother. She was hovering above everybody again, head turning back and forth, searching for his father. She was concerned by his sudden disappearance and desperate to find him. She was afraid of losing him again. Of him being taken away from her, or them being separated again. That was the kind of powerful emotion that stoked the fired of a blaze and transformed it into an inferno. Warren needed his mother’s dark smoldering inferno to overheat and short the machine. 

“Can you get my mom over here?” Warren asked. 

Will hesitated. The catacombs were shaking around them. The walls were cracking. If it hadn’t been for Layla’s roots, parts of the stone would have fallen on them already. 

“What?” Warren growled. 

“It’s just… I get the feeling your mom doesn’t like me…” Will admitted. 

Warren never realized his friend was so perceptive. His mother did dislike the young Stronghold. But now was not the time to let that stop him from talking to her. “Oh, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t wanna make you do anything that might make you feel uncomfortable!”

“I’m afraid she won’t listen to me.” Will clarified. 

“Stronghold, if we don’t stop this machine, everyone in this room will die!” Eventually. Layla’s roots seemed to be holding for the moment. But they were underground with an earth-user hell-bent on killing them all. They were at a disadvantage. Sooner or later, they would lose, then die. Unless they could stop the machine. 

“Alright…” Will began to drift away, heading –reluctantly- in the direction of Flamebird. 

Then.

Inexplicably. 

The shaking stopped. 

The machine froze. All of its moving pieces pausing in mid motion. 

Warren looked up, confused. 

Will paused, hovering in the air. A smile spread across his face. “Hey! You did it!”

Warren looked down at the panel his burning hands were on. He didn’t think he got it hot enough to cause a short yet. In his own personal experience with machines (air conditioners, computers, TVs, dish washers, the industrial walk-in refrigerator at the Paper Lantern) he had to get things much, much hotter than what he’d done so far to cause a burn-out or a short. 

A dirty hand shot up from over the other side of the machine. Fingers covered in dark brown grease. Then a second hand appeared. Equally dirty, this one holding a bayonet. Dirty hands and arms. Muscles straining as they pulled up the body they belonged to. 

Barron Battle’s face appeared, his second bayonet held between his teeth. He climbed the rest of the way onto the top of the machine and sat down, looking satisfied with himself. 

He took the bayonet out of his mouth and laid it down next to where he sat. Glancing at his son and his son’s idiot friend, he offered the boys a patronizing smile. “Cutting the fuel line works faster, Little Soldier.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m trying to stop of giant earthquake machine, miles underground, while all my friends around me are struggling with the henchmen.” Warren promised, rolling his eyes behind his mask. He added a roll of the neck just to make sure his father knew he was rolling his eyes. 

“Ooh. Was that sass?” Battle asked, still smiling. “Did you just sass me? That’s new.” A pause. “I don’t think I liked it. You used to be so respectful and well behaved.”

“This guy-? Respectful and well behaved!?” Will hovered back over to stand next to his friend. His foot knocked Battle’s bayonet and it went sliding off the machine and fell on the floor in front of it. 

“Shut-up, Stronghold.” Warren snapped. 

Battle stood and tried to brush himself off, but only succeeded in smearing grease all over his costume. 

“Barron!” Flamebird came down to join them. Practically throwing herself on him as she wrapped her arms around him in a clumsy hug. 

“What? Did you think I died again or something?” He asked. 

“I thought you might have- never mind.” She thought he might have tried to make a break for it while his old childhood friends were trying to kill his adulthood nemesis for him. It was an irrational assumption to make since he spent literally every moment since his escape trying to get back to his family. He would not just leave them to go on the run. But that wasn’t what happened, so there was no reason going into it. It was just an irrational thought. People had them from time to time. 

The cockpit of the earthquake machine opened, and Faultline crawled out. 

“Barron!” She snarled, sounding betrayed and murderous. 

“Terra.” He replied calmly. 

Barring her teeth in a silent snarl, the earth-user placer her hands to the ground again and the shaking resumed. This time, there was no order or focused control. Everywhere trembled equally. For the villains as well as the heroes. 

Lash tripped over himself and had to do some quick stretching and swinging to keep himself from falling down a fissure into the chamber bellow. 

Penny drew all her duplicates inside herself, not wanting any of them to trip over each other, or fall down a crack and be lost to her. She’d never lost a piece of herself before. She didn’t know what would happen. 

Still nursing his burned feet –only first degree burns, no worse than a sunburn, he’d be fine- Speed was sitting on the ground and not moving when a stone from the ceiling fell onto one of his legs. They heard a snap that had nothing to do with the sound of stone crashing, and the speedster let out a howl of pain. His leg was most likely broken. 

Stitches cowered against a side wall. The safest place he could think of from both falling debris, and violent heroes. 

The only one that seemed unbothered by Faultline resuming the unfocused quake was Royal Pain. The gyroscopes in her boots keeping her stable, and her armor keeping her protected from anything that might fall. 

Both Penny and Lash ran to their injured comrade. Lash cradled Speed’s head in his lap while Penny pushed the stone off his leg. Yup. It was definitely, definitely broken. 

“Stop it!” Penny shouted at the more powerful and seasoned villain. “You’ll kill us too, not just them!”

But Faultline did not stop. Just continued to make the ground shake. 

“Supervillains don’t care if their henchmen die.” Jetstream had to sobering duty of informing the young henchwoman. Faultline didn’t give a rats-ass about killing her henchmen, her old childhood friends, a room full of young people, and the city above them. Not so long as it meant also killing her arch nemesis. That was all supervillains cared about. That was how supervillains thought. 

Jumping off the earthquake machine, Battle tackled Faultline. Pinning the other villain to the ground, and holding his forearm to her throat. 

“Barron, don’t!” Called the Comamnder. “You’ll kill her!”

“She’ll pass out before she dies!” Battle shouted back. 

Holding his arm down. Pressing the side against her wind pipe, denying her brain oxygen. It took five minutes for the average person to pass out after consistently being denied oxygen. As a super, it took Terra Firma a bit longer. Her body struggled, kicking and scratching at Battle to try and get him off her. The quaking around them becoming more frantic. Hurried and violent. The kind of shaking that came from fear, not hatred. 

Will floated over to help Zach out of a fissure he’s been knocked in. Warren jumped down off the machine to push Layla out of the way of a falling stone. 

Lash expanded his elastic body to shield Speed’s already injured body from yet more falling debris. 

Then, slowly, like a deep sigh, the shaking began to subside. The rumbling got softer. The quake stopped. 

Battle let go of Faultline’s throat and stood. 

Jetstream landed next to him. “Is she…?” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the question. She was afraid of the answer. She knew they shouldn’t have brought a supervillain with them as an ally. Supervillains placed no value on human life. Supervillains didn’t care if they killed people. Supervillains enjoyed killing people. That was what made supervillains evil!

“No.” Battle assured her. “Just unconscious.” He turned to face Royal Pain. His hands were empty. In the confusion, he’d lost track of where he’d laid his bayonets. But that was fine. He was fairly competent at bare hands fighting too. Weapons just made things easier for him. “Are you ready to surrender, Sue?”

“What do you think?” Was Royal Pain’s snip of a reply. She flicked her wrist and a panel on the forearm of her armor flipped open, revealing a small wrist computer and keypad. She typed in a sequence of code and the tiny pad gave a beep of acknowledgment. “You didn’t really think I’d build something without factoring in a self-destruct!”

The computer on her wrist began to beep steadily. Counting down the seconds. But there was no corresponding beep from the gigantic earthquake machine behind Battle. 

Everyone paused. Looking at the machine in confusion. Villains loved to taunt the heroes with their own imminent death. Surely if the earthquake machine was about to self-destruct, it would make a loud and obnoxious deal about it. With a big screen and digital numbers readout. Loud ticks, or clicks, or beeps. Flashing lights. Maybe even sirens or alarms. 

But none of that happened. 

Royal Pain pressed a button on her neck and the helmet of her costume folded itself away from her face. Sue-Gwen Tenny-Grayson looked confused. She glared at the machine, not understanding why it wasn’t doing what she told it to do. 

Battle cleared his throat. “Okay, so like, your big earthquake machine was a bit more complicated than a typical internal combustion engine in the average American car.” He announced. “I had to cut through a lot of wires, and computer boards, and stuff I didn’t recognize before I found the actual fuel line.” He reached into the pocket of his leather pants and pulled out something that looked like a computer board. Green and copper, with wired sticking out of it. “Was this the Self Destruct mechanism?”

Royal Pain snarled a wordless snarl of frustration and pulled out one of her ray guns. She got off two shots at Battle –both of which caught him in the chest- before Will managed to tackle her to the floor. 

“Remember not to kiss her this time, Stronghold!” Warren joked. 

“Let me go, you idiot!” Gwen snarled, struggling in Will’s super-strong hold. 

“Anybody got a set of cuffs on their utility belt?” Will asked. 

“I can do you one better.” Layla announced. She lifted her arms in a dramatic swoop and roots sprang up at Will’s feet. That wrapped themselves around Royal Pain, entangling her. Holding her tight. From shoulders to ankles. Making sure there was no room for escape. 

“I’ll get you for this!” She vowed impotently. “I’ll get all of you!”

Flamebird glanced from Warren to Battle, satisfied that both her men were well and unharmed. Then her eyes fell on Royal Pain’s henchmen, still all huddled together. The elastic-man still stretched above the duplicate girl and the speedster. Both of them protecting their injured comrade. She made her way over to them. 

“He needs medical attention.” She informed them. 

“If we go to a hospital they’ll just send us back to jail.” Penny informed the older woman. 

Flamebird looked at the speedster’s broken leg. “If he doesn’t get help right now, he’ll never walk again. Never mind run.”

Speed gave a desperate sob. Wordless. Not from pain, but from the prospect of never being able to walk again. There was no crueler fate for a speedster. They needed to be in constant motion. They craved activity. If he couldn’t eve walk again, then he’d rather die. 

Grimly, Lash and Penny exchanged a look. They knew what it meant to Speed. As much as they didn’t want to be sent back to prison, they also didn’t want their friend to suffer. The three of them were their own sort of power trio. Maybe not as dynamic as Will, Layla, and Warren, but definitely as attached to one another as they were. That grim look shifted into a grim nod, both Lash and Penny making a silent agreement. If it meant getting Speed the help he needed, they would surrender. 

Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. It was over. 

Steve clapped Battle on the shoulder, as if they were old friends, not bitter enemies. “I gotta say, I’m impressed, Barron.” He said. “You helped us save the city and no one had to die.”

“Helped you?” Battle echoed, choosing to be insulted. “I did all the work! All you did was laydown and let yourself get kicked around by Sue! I was the one who disable her machine and took out the self destruct. I saved the city. You just watched.”

“Gawd, can’t you just take a complement?” The Commander pleaded with him. 

“It’s not a complement if you’re not crediting me with all of what I’ve actually done for you!” Battle snarled back. 

Both Will and Warren moved to stop their fathers before this argument could escalate into another fight. 

“Will you two just stop!” Will pleaded. 

“Can’t you just be happy we won and no one got ki-“ Warren’s statement was cut off rather abruptly when the blade of one of Battle’s misplaced bayonets stabbed through the front of his chest. 

Everyone gasped and froze. In shock and confused as to what had just happened. 

All eyes stared at the blade poking between the metal kevlar plates of Warren’s costume. Not quite the center of the chest. A little to the left. Right where the heart was. Warren was stabbed through the heart. Deep. All the way from the back and out his front. 

He looked down at the blade sticking out of him in confusion. As if he himself didn’t understand what had just happened to him. Warren opened his mouth to say something. Maybe to ask ‘What?’, but only blood came out. 

Warren fell to the floor. 

Flautline stood behind him. Blood spatter covering her consume. One hand covering a bruise on her throat from the boy’s father. She was breathing hard, taking in deep gulping breaths. But she was conscious, and mobile, and out for revenge. Warren was as good as any to start with. 

There was another heartbeat of a pause as everyone just continued to stare. Still in shock. 

Then Flamebird screamed. 

She flew to her son’s side. Kneeling on the ground next to his bleeding body. The blood coming out in spurts, sending waves through the pool that was forming around him. Each spurt and wave in time with the beating of his heart. The space in between each one growing wider and wider as it pumped the life out of him. 

Layla and Will were next at his side. Holding his hand. Not knowing what to do. What kind of first aid did you give to someone who’d just been stabbed in the heart? 

“Maybe I can… maybe I can pull it out.” Will announced. He broke the tip of the blade off, shortening it enough to pull it out of Warren’s back with only having to lift him a little bit. 

“No! Don’t pull it-“ But Battle’s warning came too late. 

The weapon was out of the wound and the blood poured out more quickly now. Without the metal to stem the flow. A wide pool. So much blood! Human bodies held so much blood! And it was now all out and all over the floor. 

“I can cauterize the wound!” Mara announced. 

She shoved Will away from her son, and placed a hand over his chest. Right over the hole. Raw heat flowed from her hand, melting and curling the material of his costume. But Warren’s skin didn’t burn. He, like his mother, was fire made flesh. Fire didn’t affect them. She couldn’t cauterize the wound. Not that doing so would have helped any in the first place. It was just an act of desperation from a mother watching her only child die right in front of her. 

A sob of desperation cut through Mara’s throat. 

Jetstream’s heart broke for her. She never liked the other woman. But she too was a mother and could not even imagine what it must feel like to watch her child die. She drifted close to Will and wrapped an arm around him, needing to feel her own son alive, and well, and close to her. 

Everyone just stood there. Watching. Before today a lot of them had never seen anyone die before. They sure as hell had never seen someone they knew and cared about die before. Warren was one of them. Their friend. And he was… he was just… just gone. 

Battle stood there staring. He’d killed countless people in his lifetime. Mostly for money. Sometimes for personal reasons. But it was a lot. Battle had killed a lot. He thought he was unaffected by the sight of death. After all, it wasn’t like it was a person anymore. Just a body. Just meat. 

But Warren… his son… his Little Soldier. The boy he used to make bag lunches for and drive to school every day. The boy he used to tell bedtime stories to and tuck in at night. Who used to wet the bed. Who he toilet trained. Taught to walk. Changed diapers, and cleaned spit-up. Felt him kick against Mara’s swollen belly. Heard his heartbeat in the sonograms… 

His heart wasn’t beating anymore. 

The light had gone out of his eyes. 

He stared up at the chamber ceiling, unblinking and unseeing. His eyes glazed over and empty. The look of death. 

He wasn’t Warren anymore. Just a body. Just meat that looked like Warren. 

Battle felt something well up from his stomach and thought he might vomit. He put a hand over his mouth and turned to the side.

Then his eyes focused on Faultline. On Terra. On the one who did this. Who killed his boy. 

Bare hands empty, without any weapons, just raw primal rage, he grabbed a hold of Faultline. He slammed her head into the inert earthquake machine, the helmet of her costume impacting the hard metal casing. 

Battle gave an almost inhuman snarl and ripped her helmet off. He slammed her head into the hard metal of the machine again. And again. And again. On the third time, they all heard a wet crack, and when Battle pulled her away, there was blood on the machine. But he slammed her back into it again anyway. This time the sound was a lot wetter. Then again. And one finally time before he was satisfied and let go. 

Faultline dropped to the floor. Sliding down the side of the machine. Leaving a train of blood and brain matter on the metal casing as she fell. Her head lulled to one side. Her body limp. 

Battle stood over her dead body, panting hard. But what he’d just done hadn’t been all that physically exerting. It was the strain of raw emotions ripping through him that was placing a physical strain on his body. He avenged his son but… he felt no satisfaction from it. No comfort. 

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be! Battle always knew he would outlive his children. With a superpower like his, it was unavoidable. Goodness knew he wasn’t his father’s first born, and his mother hadn’t been his father’s first wife. But his child wasn’t supposed to die so young. Warren was just nineteen. An adult by legal standards, sure. But still very much a child in all the ways that mattered. Still very much a child in Battle’s eyes. His child. He was not supposed to watch his child die. This was not the way it was supposed to be! 

He let out a scream of rage. A deep primal sound cutting through his throat, up from his belly. 

Battle kicked at the earthquake machine. Picked up Faultline’s helmet and threw it across the room. Ripped at metal plating. Shattered the glass of the cockpit. Trying to break anything his eyes fell on. Needing a way to vent the emotions pulsing through him but not knowing how. For someone who killed people for a living, he never took the loss of ones that he loved very well. 

“Barron…” Mara sobbed. She wanted to try and offer comfort to her husband. But she also couldn’t leave her son’s side. Still holding the hand of the body as if he might still pull through somehow. “Barron, please…”

Lash, Penny, and Speed all huddled together. Cowering in fear of the infamous Barron Battle that was wreaking focusless destruction all over the chamber. 

Steve stepped forward, the only one courageous enough to approach Battle in that moment, and tried to wrap his arms around the other man. Battle snarled wordlessly, and beat his fists against the other man’s chest. But Steve was the Commander, he was super-strong, he could take it. And maybe to beat on something was what Barron needed right now. Steve didn’t know. He’d never lost a child before. He looked to Will, safe and sound, and standing close to his mother. Steve could not even imagine what he would feel like if he lost will. He could not even imagine what Barron was feeling. 

Eventually, the other man’s screams and snarls subsided into sobs. His fists unclenching. His arms resting against Steve’s broad chest. And he cried. Sobbing into that stupid rampart emblem of Steve’s costume. As if Battle suddenly didn’t hate Steve. As if he miraculously trusted the other man. As if they were old friends.

Steve didn’t say anything. He just rubbed circles into Battle’s back, hoping the motion was comforting. 

A thick silence fell over the group. No one spoke. No one even made eye-contact. No one knew where to look. 

At the almost fifty-year-old supervillain crying in the arms of his arch nemesis. At the body of their friend laying in a pool of his own blood. At Flamebird, still holding his hand as if he were just unconscious and needed a few minutes to shake it off. 

Layla’s vision blurred and she reached a hand up to wipe at her eyes. She didn’t realize she was crying until her hand came away wet. 

Next to her, Will was also crying. He gave a loud sniffle and wiped snot from his nose. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

“What should we do now?” Ethan asked.

“I…” Began Will, unsure. “I can carry him.” 

His hand were already covered in blood from when he pulled the knife out. He reached a hand under Warren’s back to lift him up. 

Then the body gasped. 

Will was startled and backed up. Not just backed up, but hovered away. 

Warren’s chest heaved. Taking in deep gulping breaths. As if desperate to fill lungs that had been emptied by his last breath. Then he sat up and coughed. Spitting out congealed blood as he did so. Eye wide. Staring around the room with a level of confusion that bordered on hysterical. Like he didn’t understand what was going on. Like he didn’t know what had just happened to him. He looked at everyone with those wide, confused, almost scared eyes. 

But when he tried to talk, it only came out as more coughing. His body still trying to rid itself of the blood that had pooled in the lungs when he was stabbed. 

Battle shoved Steve away, and was at his son’s side in moments. “Let it out, Little Soldier.” He ordered. “Keep hacking it up like phlegm.”

Turning his head, Warren looked at his father. Recognition donning on his face. He knew what this was. He knew what just happened to him. He’d seen it before. Looked at it from the outside. This was his father’s power. Warren never had any sort of accelerated healing powers, so he never thought he might be able to revive either. He thought they were the same power. Apparently, they were two different ones. Revival from death, separate from instant healing. 

“Ohmygawd, you guys!” Magenta gasped, as the same conclusion occurred to her too. “Warren’s just like Will! He got one power from each parent!”

“He can come back from the dead!” Zach echoed her conclusion. 

Mara didn’t care about their explanations. All she cared about was that her son was alive, and given some time to recover and maybe a little guidance from his father, would recover and be well. She shoved Battle out of her way and threw her arms around her son in a tight bear-hug. 

Will and Layla waited their turn, but when Warren finally succeeded in pushing him mom off himself, he was quickly accosted by his two best friends who also just had to hug him and celebrate the fact the he was alive and, in fact, not dead. 

When everyone was done rejoicing and Warren could breathe again, then focus turned to getting out of the catacombs and back up to the city. There were henchmen that still needed medical attention. Royal Pain had to be formally arrested and processed. And they needed to send a team down to dismantle the earthquake machine and retrieve Faultline’s body. 

There was still so much to do. They didn’t have time to focus on Warren’s second –miraculous- superpower.


	19. Epilogue

It was so late into the night when the group finally emerged back out onto the open street, that it could easily and accurately be called ‘early morning’ instead. The sky was still dark, but the moon was low on the horizon, and there was a faint glow teasing the sky behind the mountains. 

Everyone became keenly aware of how tired they all were. Exhausted really. None of them had gotten any sleep since the quake. That was over thirty hours, maybe more. 

But they still couldn’t rest. Not yet. Speed still needed to be taken to a hospital. A real hospital. Not the MASH camp in Downtown. Will flew him to Maxville General and left him in the capable hands of Nurse Spex, whom was still volunteering there. In exchange for making sure their friend got the care he needed, Penny and Lash submitted to being turned over to the police and sent back to Maxville Penitentiary. 

The Commander found the Mayor’s aid, Lucrezia, dozing in the Mayor’s office. Her head resting on the desk next to the red phone. He cleared his throat, and when she still didn’t wake up, the Commander rapped his knuckles on the desk. 

Lucrezia woke with a start. “Huh! Wah! I was just resting my eyes!” Her hair was a lop-sided mess, and there was a puddle of drool on the desk. Just resting her eyes indeed. 

“It’s over.” Announced the Commander, politely not commenting on the string of drool that still dripped down her chin. “The quakes were caused by an old supervillain, Faultline. Another supervillain killed her. We’ll need to send a team to recover her body.”

Lucrezia blinked at him, still sleepy. Her mind taking more time to process information than it normally did. Finally, his words donned on her and she started shuffling through papers on the desk. She found the hand written list of all the escapees from Max Pen. All the names had been crossed off except for Speed Harris, Gwen Grayson/Sue Tenny, Penny Lent, Lash Sandvig, and Barron Battle. The only escapees not apprehended were those underground with their group. 

“Another supervillain killed her?” Lucrezia yawned trying to process what the Commander was telling her. Like them, she had also gone over thirty hours without sleep trying to get the city back under control and organized so that aid and relief could be more effective. Then Lucrezia blinked, sitting up straight as her sleep deprived brain made a connection that the Commander never would have. “A supervillain saved the city!”

Steve fought the urge to cringe. He did not like the idea that Barron had been ‘the hero’ of this adventure. 

Instead, the Commander tried to stay on point. “You can find Speed Harris at Maxville General. My son flew him there as soon as we got back to the surface-“

“You have a son?” 

“-and Penny Lent and Lash Sandvig turned themselves in.” Steve decided to continue as if she hadn’t commented. Yes. The Commander and Jetstream had a son. They would be debuting him with the Stronghold Three at the end of the school year. But that was not important at this exact moment. “Royal Pain –that is, Sue Tenny, or Gwen Grayson, or whatever name she’s going by right now, did not come along so quietly. Flamebird’s protégé is watching her until she can be processed.”

Checking the names off the list, Lucrezia nodded. “That means the only supervillain left unaccounted for is Barron Battle.” She tilted her head to the side, as if listening to something he couldn’t hear. Then she nodded. Refocusing her attention back on the Commander, she offered him a coy smile. “But it’s not like you don’t know where he is. So, one has to wonder why you didn’t turn him in with the others.”

Steve found himself biting the inside of his cheek. He told himself he wasn’t turning in Barron with Lash, Penny, and Sue because he didn’t wanna get into another gigantic, colossal, climactic fight with another supervillain so soon after defeating Faultline. He was tired. They were all tired. Hell! Barron was probably tired too! 

That, and… Barron watched his son die. Yeah, Warren came back almost immediately after. But for a good five minutes there, everyone knew he was dead. No one had any reason to assume he might have Barron’s weird resurrection power. After all, Warren never exhibited his father’s healing ability, so there was no reason to think he might be able to revive. For one heartbreaking moment, they all believed Warren Peace was gone forever. Steve believed his protégé and his son’s best friend was gone forever. Feelings like that weren’t something a person could just bounce back from. They took time. Steve wanted to give Barron some time with his son before taking him away again. 

And, maybe, Steve needed a little time of his own. 

That whole ‘come back from the dead’ thing was pretty terrifying. He wasn’t as resilient as the kids seemed to be. He couldn’t just shake off having a dead body sit up and start talking about. And Warren’s was the second dead body to do that to him in his lifetime. Steve needed to adjust. 

As much as he needed to adjust, he couldn’t even imagine how much Warren needed to adjust. 

…

As soon as they were back on street level, Flamebird hugged her son again, then gave Battle a chase kiss. Muttering a soft, “I’ll be right back.” Before flying away. 

“What was that about?” Warren asked. 

Battle shrugged. “Maybe she has to pee.”

Warren looked skeptical. His mother was not very modest. If she needed to pee, she’d just unzip that absurdly tight costume of hers, find an ally to off the pretense of shielding everyone else’s delicate sensibilities, and pop a squat by a dumpster. Mara Peace did not believe in faking ‘decency’ or ‘propriety’ just to make other people feel more comfortable. “Which was actually one of the things that made Battle fall in love with her originally.) 

“How are you feeling?” Battle decided to change the subject. 

Warren had to pause to really think about his answer. He looked down at his chest. There was a hole in his costume where he got stabbed. The edges of the fabric burned and curled by his mother’s heat. But the skin underneath it was unmarked. In fact, it was less marked than it had been before he got stabbed. The bruises from his fight with Handless earlier in the day were gone too. It wasn’t like he’d never been stabbed. It was like he’d never been hurt at all that day. Warren felt fine. No pain. No discomfort. He wasn’t even all that tried, really. Honestly, what he felt more than anything else was…

“Hungry.” He finally answered. 

Battle nodded, as if he expected this answer. “Like I told Stronghold, coming back burns a lot of calories.” There were also a few extra details and nuances that Battle had not informed the group, but he would have to tell Warren since it was his power too. “You want steak?”

“Yes!” Warren nodded, passionately. His mouth already watering. He never wanted anything else in the world, ever, not even to be a hero, or live down his father’s reputation, more than he wanted a rare, bloody, meaty, red steak in that moment. 

Battle nodded a second time, as if he expected that answer too. Personally, he preferred venison, but that was probably due more to the fact that he grew up eating it more than beef. It seemed like every other morning there was a new deer in the garden of his childhood home. Better go get father’s crossbow. Welp, looks like we got more venison to put in the big freezer! But deer was less common in the city. Warren craving beef instead made much more sense. 

“After going this long without power, I doubt we’ll find a place with any kind of fresh meat.” Battle informed the younger man. Warren looked disappointed. “I can find you something to eat. But you have to promise me not to complain about where I got it.”

Warren couldn’t help the look of suspicion that crossed his face. There was no doubt in his mind that his father would take care of him. Dad always took care of him. But, Dad was also a supervillain who took a casual attitude to the subject of killing. Warren couldn’t help but be suspicious. “Where are you gonna get it?”

“Oh! You also can’t complain about what it is.” Battle added, as an afterthought. 

“Why…?” Warren asked, fearing the worst. 

“First, we need to find a sporting goods store to loot.” Battle announced. “One that sells hunting bows. I’ve never actually trained in firearms.” 

“Why!?” Warren asked again, more concerned this time. 

Battle looked his son in the eyes and offered a gentle, leading smile. The kind of look he used to give the boy when he was little and asked a question that in hindsight the answer to seemed so obvious, but it wasn’t obvious to him at that time because he was just an ignorant child. “Without working refrigeration, there’s only one other way to get fresh meat.”

Warren was concerned. 

It took a while before they found a sporting goods, outdoor recreation, or hobbyist store that carried bows. Every store they attempted to loot seemed to have a retail-boner for guns, but almost no one carried archaic weapons like bows. Finally, they found one that did. But even then, all it had were plain recurve bows. No crossbows. Battle selected a utilitarian wooden bow made of English yew. 

“You’re not gonna…” Warren hesitated, afraid to even voice the idea out loud. “…shoot people’s pets. Are you?”

Battle wanted to tell his son that if he could eat Bambi, then Warren should be able to eat Lady and Tramp. That fresh meat was fresh meat and that the only real difference between a ‘pet’ and ‘food’ was how hungry you were. But that was not the conversation they needed to have first. First, Battle needed to explain their power to Warren. Elaborate on the cravings. And lay down the ground rules. 

Besides, Battle was not planning on hunting anyone’s pets. Not when the city was constantly overrun by other perfectly edible vermin that no one would have any problem with him if he exterminated a few. 

“No.” Battle assured his son. He notched an arrow and drew back on the string. Staring down the shaft, he lined up his shot, then let the arrow loose. It sailed through the air and struck a pigeon in the chest. “But I hope you’re not gonna complain about flying rat.”

Warren watched his father climb over broken bits of city to retrieve the bird he’d just shot. “You know those carry diseases!” He called after the older man. 

Battle came back holding the dead pigeon, his arrow sticking through its chest and clean out its back. “That’s why you’re gonna cook it.” 

Glancing down at the bird, Warren looked skeptical. It was still covered in feathers. The guts had to be taken out… A lot more went into ‘cooking’ than just applying heat to the meat. 

“C’mon, Little Soldier, you mother tells me you’re going to culinary school, and I used to take you hunting with me all the time.” Battle scoffed at the younger man. “Don’t tell me you’re squeamish about having to butcher your own meat.”

Pulling out his arrow, Battle laid it to the side and held the small bird by the neck. “Remember every Thanksgiving when I would go out and get us a wild turkey?”

Warren knew what was coming before it happened. He was still shocked and horrified when his father ripped the small bird’s head off. The blood did not spurt out. The creature was already dead. There was no beating heart to pump blood out. But it did drip. Bright red running over his father’s hands and spilling on the ground at his feet. Warren felt like he should be sick, but amazingly, he did not feel his bile rise. Instead, seeing the fresh –still warm- blood trickling out of the animal, just made Warren even hungrier. 

“Calm down, Little Soldier.” Battle soothed. “It’s not ready yet.”

Glancing around, Battle pulled a shoelace from a pair of sneakers that had been hanging on a powerline before the quake. He tied the pigeon onto a listing Stop sigh, hanging it by its feet. Normally, fowl were cooked with their skin on, and just their feathers plucked. But plucking feathers took hours. Instead, Battle took out his unbroken bayonet –the one that hadn’t stabbed his son in the heart- and cut a long incision from the open stump where the creature’s head had been to its anus. Getting his fingers in the cut, he peeled the skin off like an orange. 

Warren felt like this too should have made him sick to watch. But with the skin peeled back and the soft pink flesh revealed Warren felt like he might just go ahead and eat it raw. Fresh meat. Well, fed from city garbage. Strong flapping wings. Well exercised and healthy. Still warm from life. Almost as if Warren could take in and absorb its life by eating its fresh pink flesh. 

Battle paused when he saw the look on his son’s face. “Ease up there, Little Soldier. You’re not that far along yet.”

Warren blinked. He hadn’t realized he was drooling. Actually drooling. Like, slobber actually dripping from his open mouth drooling. Until his father said something. Warren wiped his mouth, mortified. What was happening to him?

“Go ahead and light up.” Battle commanded. “I’m almost done with this.”

Warren did as he was told. Lighting on hand on fire as his father cut open the bird’s belly and pulled out the organs. Intestines, bladder, liver, stomach, lungs. All the things people didn’t generally eat. He threw them on the ground. Except the heart. The pigeon’s tiny heart Battle kept, holding it in his other hand as he held the bird out to his son. 

Taking it in his burning hand, Warren watched the meat bubble and sizzle. The outside cooking faster than the inside. Juices bubbling up to the surface. He turned it in his hands, trying for a makeshift rotisserie of sorts. No matter what he did, this would not be gourmet cooking. Hell! He’d be lucky if the inside was even cooked all the way through before the outside was a charred and blackened disaster. 

Finally, Warren pronounced it cooked well enough. Not because it was actually cooked well enough, but because he was just too freaking hungry to wait much longer. He wanted the meat. He wanted the fresh flesh. Tender. Still carrying the vitality of life. 

Extinguishing his flames, Warren brought the bird to his mouth and took a big bite out of it. The moment the flavor hit his tongue, Warren couldn’t stop himself. He had barely even swallowed his first bite before he was digging his teeth in again, taking a bigger bite this time. Teeth scraping against the hollow little bird bones of the ribs. Juice and grease dripping from the corners of his mouth. Warren devoured breasts, wings, thighs, and legs. When there was nothing left but bone and cartilage, he looked up. Still hungry. 

He looked at his father. Dad would get him more meat. Dad always took care of him. 

Battle sat down. “Not satisfied.”

Warren nodded, still standing. He didn’t even bother to wipe his mouth. 

Battle held out his other hand. The one that still held the raw pigeon heart. “This is what you want.”

For half a second the younger man hesitated. The heart was so small, and he was so hungry. It was still raw, and Dad made him cook the rest of the bird. Hearts were pure muscle. No fatty tissue on them. They weren’t soft. It would be hard to chew. 

But this weird new desire for flesh overrode his inhibitions and Warren reached for the heart. 

Battle pulled his hand away before Warren could grab it. “Ah, ah, ah. Self-control. Maintaining self-control is just as important as slaking the cravings.” His father informed him. “Otherwise people might get the wrong idea about us. You don’t wanna end up the same way as Elizabeth Báthory, do you?”

At this exact moment, Warren couldn’t recall who that was supposed to be. 

Opening his plan again, Battle held his hand up. “Is this what you want? Use your words.”

“Yes.” Warren growled, impatient. 

“Yes, what?” Battle pressed. As if Warren were still a child that had to be reminded of proper manners every now and again. 

“Yes, please.” The younger man supplied dutifully. 

“Good.” Battle nodded. “Now come sit down. People sit when they eat.”

Obediently, Warren sat down next to his father. Only then did Battle pass the heart to his son. Warren took it greedily. 

It was so small. Less than a quarter the palm of his hand. Warren swallowed it in one bite, not even bothering with the formality of chewing. Just threw it in his mouth and swallowed. He had never swallowed anything as easily as he swallowed that raw pigeon heart. It was pure muscle. The muscle that pumped blood through the body. The engine of life. Eating it was like eating life itself. 

Warren felt it the moment the heart hit his stomach because the weird craving for flesh disappeared. He felt a strange kind of relief wash over him. Like the first deep breath after being denied oxygen. Laying in a soothing bath after a hard day. A tension washing out of him. Leaving him clean. New, somehow. 

Then the realization of what he’d just put in his mouth hit him. “Ohmygawd!” Warren clapped his hand over his mouth, as if he were about to vomit. But no gut feeling or heaves came. He was not sick. Just mortified. “I just- I just ate- Why did I just eat that!? Why did you feed me that!?”

His voice climbed in volume as he threatened to become hysterical. Warren stood up. One hand going to his stomach. He should be sick right now. He should be puking his guts out. Why wasn’t he sick? Why did he feel better than he’d felt in the past two days? He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t nauseous. He was… energized. Awake. Rejuvenated. Satisfied. 

“Sit back down, Little Soldier.” His father commanded. “Making yourself crazy isn’t gonna help any.”

“I just ate raw meat!” Warren shouted at him, still very much freaking out. 

“You’ve seen me eat raw meat before.” Battle informed him. “You didn’t seem to think it was a big deal back then.”

In all honesty, Warren couldn’t remember ever having seen his father eat raw meat. But then, things were perceived differently through the mind of a child. He sputtered helplessly, not knowing what to say. Just knowing that all of his food handler’s training, and food safety orientation went against eating raw meats. 

Battle just leaned back and sat patiently. Waiting for his son to finish freaking out so they could talk. 

“Now that you’re like me you’re gonna crave more meats.” He said when Warren didn’t seem to be calming down. Battle didn’t know how long Steve was going to give them before he decided their truce was up and it was time to become enemies again. He didn’t know how long he had before they tried to send him back to prison, and Warren needed to hear this. “Real meat. Dark meats, not white meats. Red meats, not marbled. Muscle, not fats. Muscles are power, fat is just garbage and waste.” 

Most average people preferred fatty meats because they tasted better. 

Warren looked at his father. Still agitated. Still freaking out a bit. Still upset. But calming down enough to at least hear an explanation. 

“You’ll usually only crave raw meats after a death.” Battle continued. “So don’t worry. This is not your new normal. I sometimes crave raw meats after I do a lot of healing, no death involved. But you don’t have my healing ability, so that might not be true for you. I honestly don’t know. Hearts are the best source of meat since they’re pure muscle. There’s almost never any fat in them. There used to be an artisan butcher a couple blocks from where we used to live at the Spear. He would sell me cow hearts at a discount because I was a regular customer and it wasn’t a thing that was in demand. If he’s still in business after all this, give him my name, tell him your my son, and he might give you the same discount.”

Taking a deep breath, Warren finally calmed down to participate in the conversation. “Does Mom know about this?”

Battle nodded, smiling at something funny. “She likes to joke that this weird quirk of the power is the only reason I like to eat out her- uh-“ He cut himself off abruptly, remembering that this was his child he was talking to. There were some things one did not share with their child, not even if that child was an adult. Battle cleared his throat. “You’ll also get really tired or weak sometimes in the middle of the day.” 

Warren very clearly remembered his father napping on the couch a lot. Always around noon, when the sun was highest in the sky. 

“And if you have to travel, I recommend flying. Especially if you have to travel overseas.” Battle continued. “Don’t take a boat. I’m not gonna go so far as to say you can’t cross moving water, but the experience will be so unpleasant you’ll wish you could die.”

Raising one eyebrow, Warren gave his father a critical glare. “Are we… undead?”

“No. No, of course not!” Battle was quick to assure him. “We’re just… uh… death-challenged.”

Not exactly ‘calm’, but calmer, Warren finally sat down next to his father. “Are we immortal?”

Here Battle hesitated. Unsure of his own answer. “I don’t think so…” He admitted. “I mean… they did eventually manage to kill Rasputin. And I managed to kill my father-“

“What!?”

“-so I’m pretty sure we’re not, like, immortal-immortal. Just, sorta, functionally-immortal.” Another pause. “Death impaired.” 

“Go back to the part where you killed my grandfather!” Warren shouted. He was freaking out again. But for an entirely different reason now. 

But Battle ignored the question. “The point is, while death has less meaning for us, it’s not meaningless. You can still die. So, you need to take care of yourself and be careful. This doesn’t give you a free pass to be reckless.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the two broken pieces of the second bayonet, the one that had impaled Warren’s heart. “Keep this. As a reminder. The first time is different somehow. It changes you.”

Warren really wanted to go back to the part where his Dad just confessed to straight up murdering his own father. But it seemed Dad wasn’t going to comment on that. Instead, he asked a different question. “What was your first time like? The first time you died?”

Leaning back and stretching, Battle took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I was younger than you are now…” He began. “Seventeen. Still in the beginning of my senior year of high school. My skull was smashed in.”

His tone implied that there was more. But he let the statement hang there. Not speaking any more. It made Warren wonder if there was something more significant that his father wasn’t sharing. Obviously, there was something more significant his father wasn’t sharing. But it left Warren’s imagination to wander as to why. 

“Did- did Will’s dad- Was it Mr. Stronghold that killed you?” He asked, a little afraid of the answer. That could certainly explain the bad blood between them. If Steve Stronghold were the first person to ever kill him. Smashed in his skull with his super-strength. In high school, Mr. Stronghold would still have been young and inexperienced. A teenager himself. Maybe he didn’t yet know how to control his own strength back then. 

Battle just laughed. As if that were the most hilarious thing he’d heard all day. (Considering the kind of day they had, it probably was.) “Steve Stronghold could never hurt a fly that was biting him.” Battle announced. “He only killed me ten years ago by accident. No. Steve wasn’t my first time. I was at home when it happened. No one from school was even there.” 

Warren had so many more questions. 

But he didn’t get the chance to ask them. Flamebird returned then. She had changed out of her hero costume and was dressed in skinny jeans and a burgundy t-shirt, a gray sweatshirt thrown over them. She was wearing the darkest clothing she owned –unlike her husband, Mara Peace did not actually own anything in black. She hovered down to land on the cracked street in front of them, carrying three backpacks. Was she going somewhere?

“Good, Barron found a better weapon.” She nodded, noting the recurve bow and quiver of arrows they’d looted. She passed one of the three backpacks to him. “There’s a change civilian clothes in there for you. You should ditch the costume as fast as you can.”

“Um, wait, what?” Warren asked, glancing from one parent to the other. “What’s going on?”

She passed a second backpack to him. I looked like his school backpack. He thought he left it in Mr. Stronghold’s car after the quake. But when he opened it, it was not his supplies for culinary school, or his work apron inside. Instead was a change of clothing, sever pairs of clean underwear, bottles of water, dried food, and… 

“The hell!” From the bottom of the backpack Warren pulled out several stacks of hundred dollar bills. All with their bank issued paper bands still wrapped around them. Five stacks of $100 bills, that came to a total of $50,000 dollars! Under the stacks of bills was a passport. Taking that out, Warren opened it and was confused. It was his picture that stared back at him. His picture with his birthdate. But the name was most definitely not his. “What the hell is this!?”

“We need to get moving.” Mara announced. “Right now. While the Strongholds and the others are still recovering. While Steve and Josie are distracted making sure Royal Pain and her henchmen are processed. We won’t get another chance like this again!”

She hovered into the air. 

Battle gazed up at her, patiently. “Were you planning on carrying both of us, Sparky?” He asked. “Because there’s no way we’re gonna get a car through these streets and Warren and I can’t fly.”

“What are you guys even talking about?” Warren demanded, still not quite sure what was going on. He felt like he was being hit with another dramatic shock, but was still reeling from the whole dying and coming back thing that he was having trouble processing everything. “Go where?” He held up the passport with his picture but not his name so that both parents could see it. “Who’s Steven Straight? Why does he have my face? What’s going on?”

Battle made a disgusted face. “You gave my son Steve’s name as an alias.”

“It was literally the first man’s name I thought of when I was paying the forger.” She announced. 

“Forger? Alias?” Warren echoed. “This is supposed to be my passport! How long have you been planning this!? What even is this!?”

It had to have been since long before the quake. Since long before his father actually broke out of prison. Warren remembered sitting in the garden with his mother and asking her flat out if she’s tell him if she were planning something… devious. She was honest and informed him that, no, she would not tell him. Apparently, that was true. She hadn’t told him. She had been planning something. For a long time. Forging fake passports and putting aside large stacks of cash. 

“Your mother wants us to run away, Little Soldier.” Battle informed him son. “Steve will try and put me away again if we stay. You know that’s true. But he can’t get at me if he can’t catch us.”

“Warren, we can explain on the way.” His mother told him. “But we need to get moving right now! Our window is small and already closing.”

Warren stayed rooted to the spot. Staring at his mother. It was almost like he didn’t even know her. Like he was looking at a completely different person. 

“Leave?” He repeated. “With an escaped convict. We’d be fugitives. We’d be…” the last word came out as a horrified whisper “…bad guys.” 

Villains. Supervillains. 

He would become a supervillain. 

That was the one thing Warren Peace spent literally half his life striving not to become. If he left with his parents he would become the one thing he fought so hard against. 

Slipping the money and passport back in the pack, Warren zipped it shut again and tried to pass it back to his mother. “I can’t.”

“Warren!” Mara pleaded with him. “They will take your father away from us again!”

He looked from one parent to the other. 

Battle placed a hand on Mara’s shoulder. “He knows that, Sparky.”

Mara might have looked betrayed if she weren’t so shocked. “Warren, do you understand what that means?” She asked. “You will never see your father again!”

“Four lives.” Warren nodded. ‘Life sentences’ held an entirely different meaning for him now. His perspective had changed. His mother would never get to see him again. She was mortal. But… he might still be around when his father got out. Warren bit his bottom lip, thinking. “What about… what if… we could try what the Broker suggested.”

Looking confused, Mara glanced from her son to her husband. “What’s he talking about? What did Ave suggest?”

Battle did not answer. Just stood there, looking grim-faced. 

“Dad helped.” Warren began. “He didn’t just help. He saved the day. He was the one who stopped the earthquake machine. He was the one who- -who stopped Faultline.” ‘Stopped’ here meant ‘killed’. “That’s not nothing. Dad was the hero today.”

Battle made a disgusted sound at being accused of being a ‘hero’. One day, Warren was going to make his father tell him why he was so determined not to allow himself to be a hero. What did he think was so bad about heroes? But that was not important at the moment. 

“That Broker suggested we use that to barter for leniency.” Warren explained. “Maybe not complete freedom. But a shorter sentence. Time out of Solitary, and back in with Maximum Security. Giving him back visitation days so that we could see him again.”

“If we leave now, we can see him every day!” Mara argued back. 

“If we leave with him, we’ll be supervillains too!” Warren shouted at her. 

“Well, maybe we should be!” Mara snapped. “Maybe we should have been villains all along! What has being heroes ever done for us? It was long hours. It cut into my day job. It cut into my time with you and your father. I missed more than one of your school events because some idiot fell sleep with a cigarette and set his house on fire! I have been called a bad mother more than once for spending my time using my powers to help complete strangers instead of spending time with you. I have been called selfish and uncaring for spending time with my family instead of helping strangers. I can’t win. Nothing I do is every right! I’m better off as a villain!” 

Warren felt bad for his mother. He really, really did. He knew it was hard for her. He lived with her. He saw every day how she was mentally and emotionally exhausted by the job. He understood how she felt. But that didn’t change how he felt. 

“I don’t want to be a supervillain.”

“Warren, if you don’t come with us, I’ll never see you again.” She told him flat out. 

The hand on Mara’s shoulder gave her a sympathetic squeeze and Mara looked up at her husband. Battle’s expression was stony. Unreadable. “He knows that, Sparky.”

Understanding donned, and Mara looked back at her son. 

This time, her expression really was betrayed. She gaped at her son as if she didn’t even recognize him. As if she’d never seen him before. This couldn’t possibly be the boy she raised. The boy she raised –alone- for the past ten years. Who was this man? “Are you really choosing them over us?”

Behind his mask, Warren’s eyes welled up with tears. He wasn’t just losing his father a second time. Now he was losing his mother two. Both of his parents, not just one of them. “I’m sorry, Mom.” 

Letting go of her shoulder, Battle leaned down and placed a chase kiss to the side of her head. “Stay with him, Sparky.” He told her. “He thinks he’s all grown up, but he still needs his mother. Mine was taken from me when I was too young. Don’t leave him before he’s ready to be on his own.” He stepped away from her, and passed his bow and arrows to Warren. “I imagine you’ll probably wanna return this to the store we looted them from. Being a goody-goody hero and all.”

“What are you gonna do?” Warren asked, afraid of the answer. 

Battle looked tired and reluctant. But he was firm and his voice was even when he said, “I’m turning myself in. Not to Steve. The Commander doesn’t get to be the one to arrest me this time. I’m turning myself in to you. You get to be the hero to bring me in.”

There was a beat of silence. 

Then Warren nodded, truly appreciating what his father was doing for him. “Barron Battle, you have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney…”

…

It was several weeks later before they were able to meet with a judge to reassess Barron Battle’s sentence. It was not a formal hearing. Just a meeting between the judge, Battle’s defense attorney –a lawyer recommended by the Broker named Contessina, the Warden of Maxville Penitentiary, the original hero who apprehended Battle –the Commander, and the younger hero who most recently arrested Battle –Warren, whom still had not chosen a formal superhero name for himself. 

“You cannot be serious!” The Warden snarled, his hands balled into fists at his sides. His one good eye wide with disbelief at what he was hearing. “Barron Battle is an animal!” He ripped off the patch he wore to cover his maimed and disfigured eye. “Look at my face! Look at what this monster did!”

There was a scar cutting down in an almost perfectly straight line. From forehead, down to cheek. The skin was rough and course, and oddly tented blue. Like a tattoo that had gone horribly, horribly wrong. The eye-lid was split. Even when the eye was closed a little of what was left showed through. The eyeball itself was mostly still intact. The iris –which might have at one time been blue- was discolored, and shaped weird. The discoloration cutting into the pupil. It did not dilate or shift with the light. The eye couldn’t focus. He couldn’t have been able to see out of it. At least, not very well if at all. 

Warren winced. He saw his father kill handless, but that was quick. When Battle killed Faultline, Warren was dead at the time, so he didn’t get to see just how vicious his father could be. Now he was looking at the handy work was what Barron Battle could do when he was really determined. And he didn’t even kill that man. Just left him scarred and disfigured for life. 

“Your maiming was a serious offence.” Agreed the judge. She sipped from a coffee mug calmly. “But I also have the arresting hero and the Commander himself assuring me that Battle is reforming and that they both will take a significant interest in his rehabilitation. Why should I ignore that?”

“Because if you give Battle any freedoms or leeway, he’ll stab you in the back!” The Warden warned. 

“He hasn’t stabbed me yet.” Warren heard the Commander mutter under his breath. And Battle actually promised to stab Steve one day. 

“He won’t.” Warren informed them. “He understands that violent behavior like that will lose him privileges and he wants to keep his privileges.”

The judge pulled the file closer to her, leafing through the pages of it. Battle’s fire was impressively thick. “Those privalages would be being placed back in Maximum Security, access to the yard, and visits with his family.” She looked up from the folder. “These are all standard privileges inmates are allowed. Mr. Battle is not asking for anything different than what all other inmates get.” 

“Battle isn’t like other inmates.” Snarled the Warden. 

“Can I say something?” Battle asked, raising his hand as if they were in school. 

“No!” Everyone in the room informed him. 

Neither Warren nor the Commander were willing to risk Battle make some comment or remark and accidentally insulting or alienating the judge and losing everything they were trying to get for him. The Warden didn’t want to listen to anything Battle had to say. He had already made up his mind about the other man and would never forgive him to taking his eye. As far as he was concerned, Battle had nothing to say. The Judge had no patience for emotional appeals. She made her rulings based on facts in evidence and the letter of the law. The defendant’s feelings or thoughts on the matter were immaterial. 

Flipping the file shut, the Judge sighed. She’d already spent more than its fair share of her time on this case and this wasn’t even a hearing. “As far as I can see, there’s no reason for Mr. Battle to be permanently confined to Solitary. He goes back to Max Sec, and his family gets to see him as early as next week. If I had my gavel I’d bang it, but how about the last one of you out just slams my door instead.”

“That’s unacceptable!” Roared the Warden. 

Steepling her fingers on the desk, the Judge looked him over with a measured stare. “Are you say you won’t abide by my ruling?”

“You don’t know what you’re doing.” He told her. 

The Judge just continued to hold his him in her gaze. “Even criminals and prisoners have rights. Are you telling us that you will ignore my ruling and violate his prisoners’ rights?”

You don’t know what you’re doing.” He repeated, not knowing what else to say. He couldn’t make anyone else understand. He couldn’t make anyone else in the room feel the same, all consuming, hate he felt for Battle. 

“If you will not abide by the letter of the law and fulfill your role as Warden, then you will have to be removed from your position and replaced.” The Judge informed him, her voice a warning. 

“Are you firing me?” He demanded. “You can’t fire me.”

“If you can’t do your job, you’ll be replaced.” She repeated. Then nodded to the Commander. “We’re done with Mr. Battle, you can take him back to his cell. The Warden –whomever that ends up being- will find him a place in Maximum Security by the end of tomorrow.”

…

As it happened, the Warden did end up being replaced. The former-Warden packed up his desk, moving around the new Warden as she selected a cell in Max Sec to place Barron Battle in. 

As if to add insult to insult, he found his car was blocked in when he got out to the parking lot. Holding his box of personal affects in his arms, he glared at the sporty hybrid as if it too were in league with Battle and was determined to ruin his life. 

Seeing him, a woman got out of the driver’s seat. “Are you Ian Ward, former Warden Maxville Penitentiary?”

“You got a problem with me too, lady?” He demanded, already in a bad mood. 

She smiled. Somehow looking both amused, and yet humorless at the same time. Like there was some great cosmic irony going on that he was ignorant of. “Just the opposite.” She said. “I want to offer you a job.”

“A job?” But he just got fired from his job. 

“I work in the research and development department of the Parasol Corporation.” She passed him a business card, identifying her Eve L. Darling, Head of R & D of Parasol Corporation. “And I need someone with experience managing large groups of people.” A significant pause. “Large groups of people that don’t want to be managed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked. 

Eve offered him a leading smile. “I assure you, it’s not that different from Wardening for a prison at all.” Another significant pause. “Except you’ll be working for the private sector, not a public servant. So, the pay’s better.”

…

Time in the common area lounge was limited for everyone. This was a prison, not a day camp. And it was especially limited for inmates of Max Sec. But Battle still managed to catch enough time to watch the new heroes debut on the news. 

It was a rerun of a live broadcast from earlier in the morning. It said ‘LIVE’ in the bottom left hand corner, but the TV showed them standing outside Maxville City Hall in broad daylight, and it was getting dark now. The Mayor was thanking the Commander and Jetstream for saving the city, and the Commander, in turn, was introducing the new young heroes who helped them. (There was no mention of the supervillain Barron Battle helping them.)

The first one the Commander introduced was the guinea pig. Commander introduced her as the shapeshifted, Scurry. 

Then was the popsicle. The hero name he chose for himself was the Liquidator. 

Zach was third in line. Someone must have convinced him not to go with ‘Zach Attack’ as his super name because he introduced himself as Highlighter. (He cut off the Commander and stepped in front of him to do it too. Battle kinda liked that kid. Not as much as some of the others in the group, but well enough. Warren had found a decent group of people.)

Layla was next. She had made an improvement on her costume. Gone was the yoga pants and jacket. She no longer looked like she was going to the gym. Instead, she wore a hooded tunic of bright green. With trim in shades of yellow and pink. All bright colors that reminded one of sunlight on flowers on a spring day. Instead of a mask, she wore her hood over her face, with dark green makeup added around and just under her eyes to conceal her identity. The Commander introduced her as Persephone. 

Warren was second to last. He was the only reason Battle was even watching this broadcast. He had changed his costume a little too. Besides the obvious fix of patching the hole where he was stabbed. It was still a black suit, but it looked like he changed the armor. Instead of two separate plates covering his pectorals, it was one solid plate across his chest and back, with smaller band-like plates going down his ribcage. All in black. Black, except for the other change to his costume. The addition of an emblem. A bird. Very similar to Mara’s Flamebird. In deep red, a jarring contrast to all the dark black. For half a second Battle thought Warren was going to call himself Burnhawk 2, after his grandfather (Mara’s father). 

But then the Commander introduced him as Phoenix. 

An immortal bird that regenerates from the ashes of its own death. Warren was keeping the aviary tradition of his mother’s family, while also incorporating the power he got from Battle. Regeneration after death. Immortality. (A type of immortality.) 

Phoenix. 

Battle could not have come up with a better name if he tried. 

Steve saved the introduction of his own son for last. 

Of course he would have. The crowd went absolutely nuts when the Commander began his preamble with “I’m proud to introduce my son…” Then literally every spectator in front of city all roared. The Commander had a son. Incredible! A legacy. Destined for greatness. The hero line continues. First the Admiral. Then the Commander. Now there was…

“Lieutenant!” 

Battle snorted. Were they just gonna keep going down Navy hierarchy? Steve’s father was the Admiral. Then Steve was the Commander. Now Steve Jr. –Will- was the Lieutenant. What was Will’s kid gonna be? The Ensign? Petty Officer? Gunny? Cadet? 

With a bit of a scoff, Battle stood and stretched. The news kept talking, showing footage of the Commander and Lieutenant, and the rest of the new heroes. But Battle had already seen the part he wanted to see. He saw Warren. Phoenix. And next week they would get to visit so they could talk all about it in person. 

Battle went back to his cell and climbed onto his bunk. Oddly content to spite his current circumstances. 

…

Persephone, the Lieutenant, and Phoenix sat on a roof top, happy but exhausted. Who knew being a real and official hero involved so much press coverage and interviews? Who knew interviews could be so draining. Covering an entire underground cave system in vines wasn’t as exhausting as talking to the press. Lifting an entire floating school wasn’t as exhausting as talking to the press. Dying and coming back wasn’t as exhausting as talking to the press. 

All three of them were glad to be real and official heroes. But all three of them were even more glad to be away from the press. 

“Well, I think it’s safe to say we all passed our internships.” Persephone smiled. She lowered her hood and smiled at the other two. 

“Even if my mentor turned out to be a supervillain in disguise.” Agreed the Lieutenant. He turned to Warren. “Be honest, did you honestly think it would happen for you?”

Phoenix looked down at the red bird emblazoned on his chest. He had a hand over it almost reverently, almost as if he needed to reassure himself that it was, in fact, still there. That it was real. “No.” He admitted. “I didn’t think they would let me.”

“And now?” Persephone asked. 

“Now…?” Echoed Phoenix, not sure himself. He paused to think about it for a moment. 

So much had happened in such a short amount of time. City wide disasters, team-up with supervillains, underground adventures, revelations that mentors were villains all along, climactic battles, major death, legal battles… that’s not even counting all the time and work that went into helping the city recover. The city was still recovering. But they had made it. They were heroes. Phoenix didn’t think it was possible for him. It was all so much, he didn’t know what to think. 

“Why did the Commander show me my Dad’s old house?” He finally blurted out. 

“Huh?” Both Lieutenant and Persephone blinked at him. 

“Before the quake.” Phoenix supplied. “Like, right before it. We were on our way back when the quake hit, and he hasn’t mentioned it since. What was the point of that?”

…

High up in the mountains, miles above Bedlam Unincorporated, at the end of a dirt road that veered off the main highway, the ground was disturbed. 

There was a trunk buried underground. Deep. Over six feet deep. Deeper than the average grave. The kind of antique storage trunk popular in the sixties and seventies. It had been locked, the key long since lost, and wrapped in duct tape for extra measure. 

Inside the trunk was a body. The body of what had formerly been a man. His knees drawn up to his chest to make him fit in the trunk. A knife in what had formerly been his heart. A needle in an eye socket that wasn’t quite empty to spite being dead for thirty years. A plastic bag over the head. A leather belt pulled tight around the neck. 

Whoever had killed him sure wanted to make sure he was dead –and stayed dead. 

Faultline’s earthquake didn’t do much damage up in the mountains. Not compared to the destruction it wrote in the city and on the valley floor. But it did displace the ground enough to shake the trunk. Shake it, and break the lock. Duct tape, aged thirty years ripped. The lid of the trunk broke open. Not a lot. Just a crack, really. Just enough for the insects to get in. 

Ants, and worms and beetles. 

But when a beetle walked along the skull’s exposed teeth, the body moved. The lower mandible tipping the beetle into the open mouth. It chomped down on the beetle, the crunching its exoskeleton echoing loudly in the enclosed space of the trunk. 

It ate another beetle. Then another. And the worms too. The worms were great! Worms had five hearts! After eating enough, the body was able to move again. It reached up and pulled the knife out of its chest. Then the bag from its head. The belt from around its neck. The needle out of its eye. 

The life of the bugs it was eating bolstering its strength. It continued to eat what invaded its grave. Until it finally had the strength to dig itself out. 

One thin, bony, almost skeletal hand punching up through the dirt. Long spidery fingers clawing at the grass, pulling itself the rest of the way out. The boy was out. It was freed. But it was still very weak. Noting but skin stretched over bone. It needed to replenish its strength. It needed flesh. Flesh and hearts. The vitality of life. 

The woods were full of life. Teeming with it. 

Staggering slightly on bone-skinny legs, the body drifted into the trees. Disappearing into the darkness. 

…

END


End file.
